


It Figures

by scullyseviltwin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, M/M, You've Got Mail AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-23 06:57:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 61,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3758719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyseviltwin/pseuds/scullyseviltwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The cursor flickers at John once more, and before he can wonder if it’s still vogue to troll chat rooms for anonymous companionship, his fingers are taking to the keyboard. (Fusion with <i>You've Got Mail</i>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The trusty three: [Allison](http://www.wearitcounts.tumblr.com), [Erin](http://www.thescienceofobsession.tumblr.com) and [Amanda](http://www.astudyinrose.tumblr.com).
> 
> The best. You're the best. THE BEST!

The cursor blinks at him.

There, gone. There, gone. It’s a taunt.

John frowns and sits back on the hard wooden chair, staring at the text input screen of his newly-minted blog. He can’t think of a thing to say, can’t think of one single part of his day that’s compelling enough to share on the web. He’d spent a good two hours learning how to set the damn thing up, change the font to his liking, and add a photo, but now it all seems like such a waste.

He hits the ‘a’ button and holds it down, producing three lines of text before he removes it all with purposeful taps of the delete key. 

Despite the late hour he is wide awake and cannot find something to occupy his mind. He has read the few books he has on hand, and aside from his medical tomes he’d retrieved from Harry when collecting his meager belongings, there’s nothing else to peruse. John doesn’t have a television, though he supposes he could use his computer to load one of those instant-film websites he’s heard about.

 

After mulling the thought over for a bit, he decides he can’t justify the expense. 

A breath rushes past his lips, puffing out his cheeks. After aimlessly tapping on the space key for a few moments he brings up Google. John’s fingers dance over the keys without touching them, wondering what exactly he wants to search for.

_Fulfillment,_ his mind supplies and he gives a harsh chuckle. _Adventure, purpose, drive, anything to make me feel useful again_. He knows that the search engine can’t provide him with those answers, but he might at least find something to occupy him until he’s made himself weary enough to go to sleep. 

The cursor flickers at him once more, and before he can wonder if it’s still vogue to troll chat rooms for anonymous companionship, his fingers are taking to the keyboard. In his twenties he’d browsed chat rooms, sometimes just to feel alive vicariously through others’ experiences, other times for genuine companionship. Now, well, he doesn’t really know what he’s doing. But it’s something that he knows at least a bit about, or rather did, some fifteen years ago. 

John frowns as he pecks ‘chat rooms’ into the text input block.

Results return dozens of options, and for a moment he feels overwhelmed and left behind, a forgotten remnant of the nineties that somehow slipped inconspicuously and unseen into the noughts. The internet landscape has changed so much since he was last able to surf it freely. The graphics and the text look glossy and updated and for a brief flash John feels entirely too old to be searching for something like this.

He takes a long pull of his tepid tea, checks his weakened resolve and revises his search criteria, ‘Doctor, chat rooms.’

Again, he’s presented with dozens of choices, so he spends some time sifting through the results, ruling out the ailment-specific ones. He avoids WebMD entirely. Eventually he stumbles upon one titled “Health Chat” and clicks it, curious. There is a disclaimer--which as a licensed medical professional he is heartened to see--warning the chat consumers that the status of those giving medical advice has not been verified.

John purses his lips at that, moving the mouse around and clicking on various links. Though it’s an unverified health advice site, John finds that many of the people spouting diagnostics and suggestions seem to be hitting the nail on the head. The layout of the site is sleek and uncomplicated, with a few ads in the sidebar, but nothing ostentatious.

For a time, John simply watches the proceedings in a few chat rooms. He clicks into “Dermatology” to find a discussion about discerning between contact dermatitis and eczema. Over the next hour he finds himself scanning the “Pregnancy,” “Ophthalmology” and “Orthopaedic” boards.

John wouldn’t call this website an actual repository of medical knowledge, neither does it seem too shabby. Thus satisfied that he’s not accidentally being scammed into downloading a virus or browsing a site that’s a front for something else--he’s accidentally managed to find three porn sites when he misspelled a word--he clicks on the chat room link for ‘Surgery.’

There are a dozen subheadings and John assesses the website overall. It seems well-laid-out and as though it gets a decent amount of traffic. Convinced, he clicks on a link that states he can create a profile and begin “adding to the discussion.” He spends some time working on that, deciding what information to give; he may have been abroad getting shot at for the past few years, but he does know that there’s been an uptick in identity theft.

His username is simple enough: John5NF. On his profile page, he settles for his first name--common enough--and a listing of his specialties and diagnostic capabilities. He’s careful to omit the fact that he graduated from Bart’s and that he is an army surgeon, but includes that he’s well versed in triaging trauma. Carefully, he rereads what he’s typed and then saves his profile. 

He spends the next few hours lurking in the trauma chat rooms. When the shadows on the wall begin to shift and the first rays of sunlight peek through his curtains, he crawls into his twin bed, brain ceasing its buzzing for the time being.

He sleeps for an hour before the nightmares wake him. 

\---

John spends the next day wandering aimlessly around the city. He feels like a stranger, though London was home to him for years before his deployment. He finds himself checking in on his old haunts: the pub he frequented in medical school, the deli with what he had once deemed to be the best sandwiches, Trafalgar Square and Regent’s Park. It all looks rather the same to him, though he knows it’s not. 

These places have changed just as irrevocably as he has, and after spending a short time in each, John grows uncomfortable. He needs to move, needs to get out, away; he feels as though he doesn’t _know_ anything anymore. He feels as though he doesn’t fit anywhere.

Leaning on his cane, he hobbles to the Tube and takes the Circle Line out seventeen stops in order to attend his pension-required therapy session. There isn’t much to talk about with his therapist, because nothing ever happens to him. He hasn’t written anything in the blog as she had suggested, but ‘just creating it is progress,’ she says. He can’t fathom broaching the subject of his depression---even though _he_ knows that _she_ knows--and having her pencil it into his file in her neat penmanship. It’s inexplicable, but he has a fear that once it’s written down, it’s easier to lose control of it. If it’s on paper, it can be handed off, copied, disseminated. 

It’s a crazy thought, he knows it is. But then, maybe he’s going a little bit crazy. Maybe he’s just perpetually _going_ , now. 

He’s a husk, a shell, a forgotten remnant. 

By the time he makes it back to his bedsit it is dusk, and he’s contemplating whether or not he wants to bother eating dinner. He’s not hungry, hasn’t felt hungry in ages; he just feels tired, as though he’s living years within the space of a day. It’s another telltale sign of his depression, and he wonders how long he can possibly live while feeling like this. He feels aloof and leaden at the same time, rests for a moment with his head hanging. 

Sighing, he retrieves an apple from the tiny, makeshift kitchen and moves to his computer. There’s an email from Harry, updating him on her progress--something mandated by her own therapist, he’s sure--and with a roll of his eyes, he leaves it read in his inbox, planning to respond at a later time. John clicks around the internet, catching himself up on the news and the weather, until he remembers the chat room that he signed up for. 

When he logs in, there’s a message welcoming him to the site, from a user who specifies herself as both a site moderator and an MD. There is one spam message enticing him to buy penis enlargement medication that he junks and an invitation from another moderator to “explore the newest posts and open chats in our trauma, palliative care and physiotherapy boards!”

On a whim, John clicks on the link for ‘trauma’ and is taken to a page where there are options for message boards or the live, open chat that is currently ongoing. He selects the ‘Chat with us now!” link and the screen flickers and opens on a page that is instantly updating with user responses and inquiries. 

John’s vision blurs momentarily but he picks up a line and follows it, eyes reading along as the chat continues to update. There are a few questions about proper emergency procedures in Accident and Emergency units from a person who seems to be looking to take legal action against a hospital. There is one user addressing that person directly, while others are popping in with simple questions such as, “How long does it take to recover from seat belt injuries in auto accidents?” and “How often is ultrasound used to confirm abdominal injury?”

John chimes in on one or two subjects and then simply sits back and watches the various conversations play out. It’s not boring, but he doesn’t feel very engaged either. He’s finishing up his apple and preparing to click out of the window when guest_47995 asks, “How long would it take for a 200 pound, six foot athletic male to expire from a wound sustained to the femoral artery?”

It’s an oddly specific question and oddly formal. John’s eyebrow perks as he reads it, but still, he does the math in his head, and aside from extenuating circumstances, comes up with a ballpark answer. He doesn’t give it, however, feeling something vaguely off about the question.

 

Instead, he watches as other users pick up on the odd inquiry.

**ThelmaJJ2MD** : That’s a very specific question, may I ask how the person would have come to sustain such an injury?  
**guest_47995** : You may ask. I am not required to answer.  
**ThelmaJJ2MD** : Well, that’s a common injury in auto accidents, was the patient in an auto accident?  
**guest_47995** : Victim. And I am not permitted to answer that.  
**Abrham27** : NGL guest, that’s a really weird question.  
**Abrhams27** : Victim?  
**guest_47995** : It would be phenomenal if someone could answer my inquiry, and soon. This is time sensitive.  
**UCLAMed1985** : Why time sensitive?  
**Abrhams27** : And why *victim*?  
**guest_47995** : I assure you there is nothing nefarious going on on my part. I simply require an answer. Victim because that is the term that the situation dictates I use to describe this particular individual: a person harmed, injured, or killed as a result of a crime, accident, or other event or action.

There is no chat communication for a few moments and John bites at his bottom lip, waiting.

**UCLAMed1985** : Better safe than sorry; I’m reporting you to the Mod, guest_47995.  
**guest_47995** : Is it not within your purview to answer a simple trauma-related question? Are you all hacks? I suppose that this is what I get in bringing a serious, medical question to an unverified, online community. You’ve all been absolutely no help. 

John doesn’t know why he does it; before he can think twice, he finds himself typing, “How wsa the artety perforated?” He hits enter before he can spell-check himself and cringes. 

**ThelmaJJ2MD** : I’d be interested to know as well.  
**Abrahams27** : guest?

Two users appear and ask other questions of the room and John watches the screen with interest, waiting for guest_47995 to respond. It’s another entire page of text input before an alert pops up on the right hand side: “guest_47995 has left the chat.”

He’s not sure why, but John’s heart falls a little bit at that. At least the question had sounded interesting, and he’d seen many instances of trauma like that before. He was almost certain that he’d be able to provide an accurate assessment if he’d just been given more information. He reviews some of the other problems posed by the users that are still in the room, but doesn’t particularly feel the need to give his input. With a frown, he brings the cursor up to close out the window when a personal chat box pops up on the left hand side of his screen.

**‘John5NF: user guest_47995 would like to private chat with you. Please click ‘yes’ to accept and ‘no’ to decline.’**

John purses his lips in surprise and clicks yes without a second thought. 

**guest_47995** : Femoral artery likely perforated by a blade, not a specialized instrument such as a scalpel.  
**John5NF** : How large is the lceration?  
**guest_47955** : 9.5 centimeters across.  
**John5NF** : Was there a liver temp taken?  
**guest_47995** : Why do you ask?

John chuckles to himself as it all falls into place in his mind. Tongue catching at the corner of his lips, he pecks eagerly away at his response. 

**John5NF** : just put it together now. Victim, your inability to give us any more information, this is for some law enforcement entity, yes? And law enforcement would take a liver temperature reading at the scene.

guest_47995 “is typing” for a few moments. They start and stop and begin again before John finally gets a response. 

**guest_47995** : Please don’t jump to conclusions.  
**John5NF** : andyou won’t say because it’s probably not good that youve taken to the internet to find answers to your questions. Why not work with the pathologist?  
**guest_47995** : Liver temperature indicated that the victim had been dead no more than an hour.  
**John5NF** : well with nothing else to go on I’d asay that the victim would have bled out in less than ten mintues..  
**guest_47995** : That is very helpful.  
**guest_47995** : Your typing is deplorable.

**guest_47995 has left the private chat.**

John’s mouth twists in a low-grade burst of anger. His typing is just fine, damn it. 

‘Fuck you,’ he types into the chat box and hits enter, although he knows no one will read it.


	2. Chapter 2

When he’s not taking the Tube out to Edgeware Road for appointments, John is learning how to navigate the complex landscape of the modern internet. He’s got email down, but he learns through some information that veteran's affairs sends--that he begrudgingly admits is helpful--that setting up profiles on LinkedIn and Facebook may not just help him in staying connected, but also help him to find work.

It takes him the better part of two days to get his LinkedIn profile to his liking, and he has to stop several times after becoming frustrated with his own slow progress. He figures out how to use his laptop’s camera in order to take a serviceable photo of himself, though that too takes ages. When he’s through, he browses the profiles of the people who are suggested to him; John is surprised to find many people from his own unit already on the website. He’s more surprised when he starts coming across the names of people he went not just to medical school with, but primary school. John hesitates, not wanting to reach out anyone just yet.

It feels forced to him to reconnect with someone this way, especially his old Army comrades. Would they think him needy? Would they look on him as a charity case? He frowns at his own uncertainty and closes the screen, opting to head down to the Indian place on the corner and grab a quick bite, if only just to get away from the computer for a bit.

It’s raining when he steps onto the pavement and he’s forgotten an umbrella. He feels hollow and unmoored and can’t even begin to find the energy to just turn around, go back and retrieve a brolly, so he walks to the restaurant in the steady drizzle. John smiles at the waitress at the appropriate time but there’s no feeling behind it; he’s kind and courteous and goes through the routine of acting like a normal human person like he’s on autopilot, or as though it’s all coming from muscle memory.

Chicken tikka--his favorite dish--is delivered steaming, with a bowl of rice and a plate of naan. He knows that it looks delicious, but it smells like the color beige to him and tastes like cardboard. He only eats it because he knows that he needs sustenance. 

John boxes up the rest of his meal and opts to go for a long walk, not just to help him digest, but to help him fill his head with something other than the _nothing_ that feeling alienated brings. It’s stopped raining, which he should be pleased about but he doesn’t really care one way or the other. John finds himself on the outskirts of St. James and debates going in, oscillating on the pavement before the large, wrought iron gates. There’s a twinge in his chest; he’s sure that it’s beautiful now in the spring, the neatly planted gardens all in bloom.

He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he sees it all and feels nothing. 

It’s past noon and there’s nothing more to do; the rest of his day stretches out blank and empty in his mind and he’s struck with a pang of terror. His therapist visits have presented him with an awful possibility, have unearthed a truly terrible scenario: what if the rest of his days are just this, this bleak existence?

With a deep, heaving breath, he stops thinking and simply acts, steps over the threshold of the park and starts up a path, aimless but determined. There are tourists everywhere, holding hands, sitting on benches, enjoying the day. Children squeal and run between the legs of adults. Lovers kiss beneath trees, raindrops dappling their heads as the branches quiver in the breeze. 

John blinks against the sight of it, swallows and forges on. Everyone seems to be meandering and enjoying the day--save for one rather tall, dark haired man who is shouting into his mobile and tearing down the path at breakneck speed--and John tries to emulate the leisurely pace for which the park seems to call. 

He makes his way up a slight incline and onto the large, main walkway. He turns left and halts as his pupils dilate against the burst of color with which he is assailed. Lilac bedded next to blood orange bedded next to vibrant cobalt. He takes a moment to process it all, the strictly laid out flower beds and the sweet floral scent emanating from them. The cherry blossoms hang full and lush from drooping branches and tulips and daisies sway happily beside one another in the gentle wind.

John pulls it all into his lungs and feels tenuously uplifted. _This_ is London; _this_ has not changed. He glances around at the faces of the people who pass and wonder if any of them can fully comprehend what the sight of the St. James flowers have done to him on this Spring day. 

It’s not enough to cure all, it’s not enough to lift the dark cloud that looms above him permanently, but John finds himself looking at a child sneaking in to pick a daisy, and smiles for real, for the first time in what feels like years. 

He paces himself and tries to take it all in, and by the time he makes it at last to his desired exit gate, it’s been nearly two hours and his leg is beginning to protest. John ponders stopping for a coffee on his way to the Tube and hasn’t made up his mind when he hears someone calling out behind him. 

“John!” The voice is familiar, but he can’t really place it. For a moment he contemplates pretending he didn’t hear who called him and continuing on. John’s a common enough name, but something makes him pause, his eyes narrowing.

“John Watson!”

John turns and is confronted with a portly, grinning, ever-chipper Mike Stamford. John hasn’t seen Mike in going on eight years, now. He’s not changed much from the man with whom John had come up through medical school; he’s still heavyset and seems to still be brazenly optimistic, if the light in his eyes and the dimples that dot his cheeks are any indication.

Twenty minutes later they’re seated on one of the plentiful benches and catching up, watching the passersby. Mike is describing his children and even pulls out his wallet to show John the pictures. He only half-fakes his interest, genuinely smiling at the images of two cherub-like toddlers playing in a paddling pool. “They’re three and five, can’t keep them out of _anything_.”

John chuckles and sips his coffee, waits for the inevitable question about his own personal life. Is he seeing anyone? If so, is it serious? Is he interested in dating? What’s he looking for? John’s hands curls into a fist against his thigh as his leg gives a sudden twinge of pain. How is he going to muddle his way through life, now? Can he even _make_ simple, normal conversation with an old friend?

Can he manage it?

But Mike--dear Mike--just claps his palm down on his knee and says, “I’m still at Barts, you know. Pathetic, eh?”

“No,” John says, his voice half-delight and half-horror. “I remember you saying you couldn’t wait to get out of there.”

“Yeah, well, they needed someone to mentor the first years and the next thing I know I’m teaching immunology. The pay is… fine. The administration leaves a lot to be desired, but I do get an office.”

“That’s something! They must have added more space with that recent reno, no?”

“Yeah, not so much.” Mike laughs, taking a sip of his own coffee. “I’m in the basement, next to the morgue.”

John barks a laugh up towards the sky. “Well,” he says, looking back to Mike with a wide smile curving his lips. “At least it’s quiet?” 

They fall into companionable silence for awhile, both lost in their thoughts until Mike picks the thread of the conversation back up. “What about you? Any prospects on the horizon?”

John doesn't quite know what to say. He honestly hasn’t looked at all, fearful that he’ll either end up feeling like a failure because he can’t perform surgery anymore, or looking down his nose at the jobs he’s actually qualified for. “Oh,” he says instead. “You know, finding things here and there. I’ll have to find something soon. Can’t live in London on just the army pension.”

“And you couldn’t bear to live anywhere else,” Mike says knowingly, and before John can even attempt to contradict him Mike presses on. “You know after what happened at Hillingdon they’re diverting all of the volume that needs to be stored there to the morgue at Barts.”

“That so,” John says, wondering where the conversation could be going.

“And I’ve heard from the technician there that they’re looking for someone to come in on board on an interim basis. If you’d be interested, that is.”

“Work… at a morgue.” John states and thinks about it for a time. Sure, he can’t perform surgery on living being anymore, he’d never be certified. His cheeks jumps in frustration as he admits that to himself and he grinds his teeth, waiting a beat for the feeling to dissipate.

No, he’d never be able to perform surgery again, but cadavers, he’d be able to handle that. If his cuts weren’t completely and utterly precise, there really wasn’t much harm done. Beyond making a passable Y-incision, it was mostly simply determining cause of death. As one of the only field medics in his unit, John had been a jack of all trades. He’d done autopsies before; he found them quite easy. Skillwise, he knows he would be up to the task, it just didn’t sound too exciting.

Still, if it kept him in London…

“Tell you what!” Mike perks, standing and brushing out the creases in his trousers. “Why don’t you come back with me and we’ll stop by. You can meet Molly.”

John frowns at himself, wonders what exactly he has to lose and stands, clutching his cane. “Yeah, yeah alright.” He tosses the rest of his takeaway in a nearby bin and follows Mike out onto the pavement.

They take a cab to Barts and once they arrive, Mike insists on paying. “You got the coffee,” he says with a shrug and John allows it, because he knows that Mike is not the sort of person who feels that others are beholden to him. 

John is signed in at the front desk and follows Mike along to the far bank of lifts; he doesn’t pause to take it all in, because it’s all so familiar to him. Barts has had improvements made over the years, but they’re still the same halls that John dashed through, running late to an anatomy class, the same halls where he learned what it felt like to have someone die beneath his hands. 

The hospital is like Mike: a reliable old friend.

They travel down the three floors to the sub basement, where the morgue is located, and while it is still familiar to him, it too has benefited from upgrades. He recalls this area being dingy and a tad bit spooky, but the renovations have really done the place well, brightened it up a bit. 

“I’m down off that corridor,” Mike points and then swipes his hospital badge and holds open the swinging door for John to step through. “And this, as you well know, is the morgue.” Looking around, John catches sight of a petite woman behind the glass partition where he assumes the office is. “That’s Molly. She’s a peach, very lovely woman, smart as a whip and-”

“Oh Mike!” Molly says in delight, balancing a stack of files precariously in the crook of her arm as she exits the office. “Hi!”

“Afternoon, Molly. All’s well in sub basement B?” he asks with a smile and then turns to wink at John.

She blows a tuft of hair out of her eyes and gives John a sweet and apologetic smile. “Well as can be, I’ve been slammed through all morning. Haven’t even had the chance to grab lunch. It’s,” she sighs and glances around at the gurneys. “A lot.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, but I come bearing good news. This here is my friend John Watson; we came up through medical school together. He was just about the top of our class. Was a surgeon here before he left us to go get shot at.”

John rolls his eyes, but so does with a smile; it is true, after all. “How do you do?” John would extend a hand but Molly’s are occupied. “I hear that since the Hillingdon incident you’ve been pretty busy here.”

“Well,” she says, finally just putting the files down on the edge of a metal counter, “it wouldn’t be so bad if I had an assistant, but they all keep--oh wait, oh! Mike!”

Mike breaks into a bashful grin. “Yeah I thought, well John is recently back from abroad and is looking for something in the city.”

“Oh! Brilliant! What was your specialty, John?” Molly looks at him hopefully and John can’t push the words past his lips.

“I-”

“He’s a surgeon, but after being in combat for years he’s looking for something a little less exciting,” Mike fills in for him and John releases a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. He’s not quite sure whether to feel grateful or upset for Mike glossing over his history.

John does his best to smile. “It would be nice to work somewhere a bit more quiet,” he adds, and the words feel oily and wrong on his lips. It’s a lie, sure, but one that may help in landing this position.

Molly nods, smiles, perches a hand on her hip. “Well, I’m the one who makes the selections and then it just has to go to the board to be approved, but that’s never been a problem with any of the others.”

John’s brow furrows. “Others?”

“Oh, yeah. Before. There’ve been uhm, well,” Molly bites her lip, looks a bit nervous, smiles to herself and then frowns. “Mike knows.”

Mike lets out a belly laugh--actually clutching at his stomach--and shakes his head. “Sherlock isn’t so bad. I don’t understand why so many people are frightened of him.”

John’s gaze darted between Molly and Mike, waiting for an explanation.

“He’s… a scientist,” Molly begins tentatively. “I, we’re… friends and he, well, he sometimes comes in to look--not to look at, sorry, sorry--he experiments on things. Not, not in a weird way. Well, sometimes in a--He’s _brilliant_ and-”

“Molly has a bit of a crush,” Mike supplies.

“Mike! I--he’s just, a good friend and brilliant and sometimes he needs specimens that can’t be procured otherwise and I… help him with that,” she finishes meekly. 

John’s brow furrows. “Is that… allowed?”

Mike presses his lips together and considers. “Mmmmm, strictly speaking it isn’t, but she’s right. Sherlock _is_ brilliant. He does good work. Sort of a helps people out of tough spots… for a fee of course.”

“Like he’s a private detective?” John asks.

“Something like that,” Molly says and trips over her own words. “But that’s not--anyway, you’re a soldier right? And could probably handle someone like that so--oh John, really, if you’d like the job you can forward me your CV and cover letter and I can fast track it.” She runs her fingers through her ponytail. “I could _really_ use the help.”

John considers for a moment. He doesn’t want to ask about pay or hours, and this all feels so informal that it rings a bit “too good to be true.” Still, he’s speaking to the head technician and she’s offering him a paying job, putting his medical training to use. It’s not a sham, she doesn’t want to know about what he did in the past, Mike’s word seems to be enough and she appears to be intelligent and sweet, but beyond that, _frazzled_. John feels the “yes” on his tongue but holds back.

“It’s a very nice offer; I’d like to think on it a bit, if I might,” he says.

“Silly me, yes! Of course, I can forward you along all of the information if you leave me your email? Pay, NHS nonsense, all of that.” Harried, she sticks her hand in the breast pocket of her lab coat and when she extracts it, a few tissues float to the floor, but she’s managed to present John with one of her business cards. “Just write it on that. Or keep that and email me and I’ll email you back or--”

John chuckles and grabs a pen, jots down his email address and hands it back. “I look forward to going over all of the materials. And thank you for speaking with me about this it’s…yeah, I could do with… yeah.”

“Alright Molly, we’ll get out of your hair,” Mike says as he pats her gently on the shoulder. “You hang in there.”

“Thanks Mike and uhm, thanks for bringing John in. And thanks John, I mean,” she rolls her eyes at herself. “I’ll be uhm, emailing you soon.”

\---

John returns home feeling properly tired, but cautiously optimistic. The sun is just beginning to set and he finds himself actually hungry for the first time in ages. It takes him a bit, but he manages to whip up a halfway decent risotto for himself and brings a bowl with him to his desk. While he’s waiting for his laptop to boot up, he tucks in; once the first bite hits his stomach his appetite roars to life. He pecks away at his keyboard with one hand and eats with the other, a task that’s more complicated for him than it probably should be.

He does a cursory check of the news and then logs into his email. There’s a hefty amount of junk which he deletes and then notices that Molly has emailed him all of the documents that she had promised. He reads them over quickly, resolving to give them a proper look in the morning, with fresh eyes. He is sorting through the rest of his inbox--who knew people could accumulate so much mail when they did relatively little in terms of web browsing--when he notices a personal message from the chat room he’s joined. 

guest_47995 has sent you a private message. To view the message, please click here.

John slowly puts the fork down, his eyes narrowing as he turns fully towards the laptop. Swiping at his lips with the back of a hand, he clicks the link. A web page opens on his profile page, where the private message was sits in his inbox, bolded, unopened. 

John’s gaze settles on the ceiling for a moment as he pretends to waver about what to do and then he faces the laptop and selects the message. 

_John5NF, you were very helpful the other evening. Perhaps you would be interested in lending me your medical opinion once more. If this is acceptable, please email me at guest_47995@gmail.com. I am unable to log onto the chat room properly on my mobile and this will be the easiest way to reach me._

There are no words of thanks, and no signature, and John sits back in his chair, lips pursed. He’s intrigued, he can’t deny that; he’s curious about the “victim” who’d bled out, curious as to what capacity this person works with law enforcement. But something about it does seem rather off, he admits to himself, and finds himself tapping his pointer finger lightly against the track pad, the cursor bopping across the screen.

 _It’s only an email,_ John says to himself. _What harm could come from it?_

John copies the email address and goes back to his email, pasting the address into a new, blank message. He pauses, rethinks his strategy and creates a new account. Going by h.john.watson is much too obvious; he certainly doesn’t want this stranger to know his actual name. Not that his ego is large enough to believe that he is the _only_ John Watson in the world, but he can’t be too safe. _Nowadays,_ he thinks with a wry smile and opens a new composition box.

 _Guest,_ he pecks out, feeling foolish that he doesn’t have another designator for this person. _As long as you promise me that this really isn’t for any nefarious purpose, I’d be willing to hear what it is that you need help with._ John checks his own spelling and then for good measure uses spellcheck and hits ‘send’. He goes back to his dinner, prepared to wait a bit for Guest to get back to him, but not two minutes later, there is a ‘ding’ and a reply to his sent message.

_John, I appreciate the expediency of your response. This is indeed another time-sensitive matter. If a healthy, female, twenty-five years of age was missing for twelve hours in a heavily wooded area with the temperature dropping no lower than three degrees is it very likely that she could have died of exposure? No alcohol in system._

Asking about the alcohol would have been John’s first question, and he’s impressed that Guest has thought to rule that out. 

_It all depends,_ John writes. _How healthy? Athlete? Was there water nearby? Is dehydration a factor?_ There are dozens and dozens of other questions that John could ask, but he sends those off first and waits. 

Not a minute later he has a reply. _Marathon runner, seems hydrated enough. Just got a chance to do a cursory exam of the body. Clothed. Jeans, trainers, light sweater. ME says it looks like exposure._

John squints at the text, rereads it and types his response. _That makes no sense._

 _So I thought_ , Guest writes back a moment later. _Suspicious. Thank you for your input._

The reply reads slightly caustic, though John doesn’t have much interaction to go on. If the way they spoke via direct message was any indication, this person doesn’t seem to have much patience for anyone. John’s mouth twists as he closes out of the email; he’s not sure what help he’s been just confirming someone’s suspicions, but it had felt… good. It had felt good just being consulted about something. Why Guest wanted his input, John is still wary about, but he decides that his mantra for this interaction is, _What harm can it do?_

John finishes up his dinner and cleans up; he gets into bed at a decent time and falls asleep after only three hours of tossing and turning. When he awakes the next morning, he goes directly to his computer and opens his email, intending to really review what Molly has sent him regarding the job. 

Instead he finds his eyes focusing on an email from Guest titled “Suspicious death.”

John grits his teeth for a moment and does his level best to ignore the message, instead delving into the job description and information about salary that’s been provided to him. But his interest keeps wavering; he can’t help but wonder what’s in the unopened message from guest_47995. John refocuses, berates himself for being so flighty, and finally makes it through the bulk of the information.

The job seems… good. A decent salary--one that would keep him in London at least--and relatively close to his bedsit. Molly had seemed pleasant and he could see her being a good co-worker and he’d be around Mike again. His therapist would be over the moon if he took the job. John knows it’s not ideal, and he doesn’t pretend that it is, but he also knows that the longer he waits to take a position, the less likely it is that he will be able to get anything respectable. 

He opens up a blank word processing document and makes it all the way to listing his current address before he gives up on the resume and goes back to his email. The message from Guest waits, the title bold and white, unopened. 

John clicks.

_John, as it turns out the weather was not such that the victim could have possibly died of exposure. Even a terrible medical examiner would be able to concisely tell whether a person could die of exposure and your opinion coincided with my own. From there it was no trouble at all to see that he was somehow involved. I matched detritus found on the body to something similar on the floor of the driver’s side of the medical examiner’s van. The medical examiner killed her._

John blinks at the scream, breaks into a grin and then shakes his head as he rereads the message. _That all happened last night?_ John asks, and sends it off. He finds himself wondering about Guest, what the person looks like, if it’s a male or a female, where they’re located in London. He comes up with a few dozen amalgamations about what this person _might_ be like while he’s waiting for a response. 

It comes--once again--very quickly on the heels of his own.

_Once I was relatively sure he was making an improper implication at the cause of death, it was obvious that he was involved somehow. I simply took a sample from his van, brought it to the attention of the imbeciles working the scene and when it became clear that he was implicated, he attempted to escape. On foot. It was child’s play to catch up with and incapacitate him._

John imagines it, chuckling as he does, imagines seven or eight of the amalgamations of Guest chasing down a medical examiner. It’s vaguely amusing each time, but John also finds it rather exciting. It all sounds like something out of an E4 drama. He doesn’t know whether Guest is bragging or is simply giving him a rundown of the events, but either way, John’s entertained.

He’s _interested_.

He begins his response a few times before he settles on short, sweet and honest. _You did all that? That’s brilliant. Glad I could be of help I suppose, though it seems that I didn’t do much._ John deletes the smiley face he’d typed on instinct and sends off his reply. 

The only thing that is in Guest’s next email is, _You think so?_

His tongue is at the corner of his lips as he taps his answers out. _That it’s brilliant? Yeah. I’d never make that assumption, I’d just think that the guy was terrible at his job._

John smiles at the computer and then gets up, goes about making himself some coffee and breakfast. The sun is up properly now and so he draws the curtains and looks down on the rather desolate street. Yesterday the sight might have caused him to fall further into his depression but now, with the concrete dappled by sunlight, he takes in a breath and finds it within him to realize that things may just be looking up.

He’s not happy, he’s miles from normal, but when the coffee maker clicks off and he gets a waft of freshly brewed beans, he smiles and finds that he’s content for this very brief moment. 

John gets himself a cup and an apple and returns to the computer, intending to finish up his resume. He sits down, rolls his shoulders in preparation for a few hours of formatting and self-aggrandizing and poises his fingers over the keys.

Instead there is a message from Guest waiting for him. _Good,_ the email reads. _That’s very good. I look forward to speaking with you further._


	3. Chapter 3

John spends the most of the afternoon and early evening working on sprucing up his resume and developing a solid cover letter. He sends them both Molly’s way and leans back in his chair with his palms spread over his thighs. A feeling of accomplishment glows warm in his chest and he basks in it for a time, just sitting there.

Eventually he gets up and showers, takes his time putting himself together. He goes out for dinner and orders a scotch, treating himself for making a real step in his recovery. Positive reinforcement, he figures, might be a helpful in this case. He eats at the bar of a rather upscale restaurant and makes easy small talk with the people who sit on the stools next to him.

Some of his hesitance at being out in the world flakes away and he finds by the time he’s finished his meal and drained his glass, he feels more even-keeled than he has in a very long while. He feels almost human again.

John pays his tab and saunters out into the chilly London evening, deciding again to walk home rather than take the Tube. His cane a sturdy helpmate at his side, he strolls along, intermittently people-watching and glancing up at the facades of buildings as he passes. He wants to relearn the city, he decides. He wants to get to know it’s main thoroughfares and back alleys all over again. He wants to find new haunts to make his own, seek out the changes in London and learn them, know it all as he once did.

When he returns to his bedsit, he’s a bit sore and very tired and he drops down into the small desk chair and feels relief. He’s going to sleep tonight, he knows it, and he’s grateful for it all. Compulsively, he logs into his email to find a bevy of messages from Molly.

She clearly hadn’t been embellishing when she’d said she could use the help.

Instead of answering each and every one, he notes the time is still fairly early and gives her a call. They end up speaking for an hour about his qualifications and when he hangs up, he sighs with a real sense of having accomplished something.

John remembers to shut down his laptop before he gets ready for bed. When he drifts off, he sleeps solidly for five hours before he’s woken by the need to use the toilet and he manages another fretful two hours afterward.

In the early hours of the morning he gets up and grabs his laptop, bringing it back to bed with him. John gets beneath the covers and makes sure he’s comfortable before booting up and logging on. He feels decadent, browsing the internet like this. He goes through the usual rigamarole of deleting spam and then opens a reply message from Molly.

 _John,_ the email reads. _I know that this is incredibly short notice since it’s Friday, but would you be able to start on Monday? Come in for the whole hospital training for the first part of the day and then get down to things? Let me know! Oh, and I suppose I should say formally that you’re hired! Forgot that bit, but I’ll messenger over the paperwork to arrive sometime this weekend so you can sign the contract and jump right in! Let me know your thoughts and looking forward to working with you!_

His fingers drum just below the keyboard and John breaks into a grin, shakes his head and looks up at the ceiling, thrilled with his choice. He wonders how long he can wait before sending Molly a reply. Part of him doesn’t want to seem too eager, but the other part of him doesn’t give a toss and so he writes back that he can indeed start on Monday, and sends it off.

The sigh that he emits is cleansing and John closes his eyes, leans his head back on the wall and realizes that he can stop worrying now, just for a bit. He’s got a job, he’s got a bedsit, he’s reconnected with a friend. He’s healing. He’s not totally fulfilled but he knows that change comes with time and he’s only been back a short while yet.

He decides that he’s rather proud of what he’s accomplished and sends a silent _thank you_ to the heavens for Mike Stamford and then goes on checking the rest of his inbox.

There is an email from guest_47995 with **(2)** next to where the subject should be, though it reads **no subject**. John rolls his eyes at that, which is a knee-jerk reaction he’s surprised by, but clicks on the link.

 _See the chart attached and confirm the veracity if convenient._ Below that, the second message reads, _If inconvenient, confirm anyway._

The request is audacious in its presumption that John should do as told and not ask questions, but he still opens the attachment. John tries not to think too much about it: about how curious he is, about how strange and thrilling these emails are, about what the information he gives could possibly be assisting with.

There is a slightly-blurry but still readable image file of a medical chart. It was obviously taken in haste and John purses his lips at the screen, a little bubble of anger forming in his throat. Before he even bothers to look it over he sends Guest back, _Can I ask how you came by this?_

 _Don’t ask stupid questions_ , comes the nearly immediate response. John is a bit taken aback by how quickly the reply comes; Guest must have been waiting on his answer. John bites his bottom lip, unsure why he’s not put off by the notion that there’s a stranger seemingly waiting on his medical opinion. _You know how I came by it._

_That is so wildly inappropriate. I shouldn’t answer you._

_But you will._

John huffs furiously through his nose, because yes, his fingers had been poised over the keys to answer. John begins typing, stops, deletes everything and begins again. _Tell me that this is important and you’re not just violating someone’s privacy for your jollies. Maybe I’ll answer._

There’s three minutes before John receives a reply, and he waits with bated breath for it. It’s so strange, how much he’s enjoying emailing someone. The anonymity of it all is somehow appealing to him. Reconnecting with Mike had been brilliant and he’d enjoyed interacting with Molly, but this was nice in a different way.

When the next email comes his laptop wobbles and almost crashes to the floor due to his haste in wanting to open the message. _Would it help at all if I told you that this is a very bad man, who I know did very bad things to a very many people?_

 _Yes._ John sends back immediately.

_Interesting. It’s fine with you if I violate the rights of a man who has done terrible things to other people. Is that some caveat in the Hippocratic Oath, doctor? Or are your morals just that elastic?_

_It has nothing to do with the Hippocratic Oath,_ John pounds into the computer and sends it off.

_But you have to know that if this man did something bad and I am in his hospital room--presumably, because I’ve sent you a photo of his chart--that I might do something bad to him. Something about respecting the privacy of patients, that’s in the Oath somewhere and it doesn’t seem as though you’re treading with care in matters of life and death._

John doesn’t know what to say to that. The _audacity_! But another email follows closely on its heels. _And playing God. If I ended this man’s life right here and now, would that disappoint you?_

 _It depends on what he’s done. If what he’s done warrants death, then I wou-_ John stops typing and realizes that Guest may actually be in the room with a man he’s speaking about (John hopes) hypothetically killing. Abruptly, he deletes all of the text. He thinks about what Guest said in the chatroom, about the inquiries he’s made and realizes that this is all _completely_ hypothetical, perhaps designed to get a rise out of John, but John’s not buying it. _But you wn’t. You wouldn’t have emailed me to asks me to look at the chart if you were planning on ending his life. So, either his life is already ending and you want to verify that or there’s something else gonig on._

He clicks the trackpad with relish and appreciates the compose box disappearing as he does.

_Spell check your messages. It positively horrifying to read nearly anything you’ve written; you are a doctor, I assume you have some level of knowledge. But to the point, what does the chart say?_

_This would be much easier over a messenger program you know._ John sends back, realizes how ludicrous his response is and cringes. He hasn’t looked at the image fully yet but he does now, leaning closer to his screen to get a better angle.

There’s a ping, alerting him to a new email but John ignores it, just tries to read the chicken scratch that the doctor has scribbled. He leans back, goes to reply to the first email and ask if there’s any way that guest could provide him with the scan that is mentioned in the report. But then he sees the second email, the subject of which reads **scan**.

He reviews it carefully, but the image on the screen leaves him with no doubts. _Yeah, I mean going from the scan and the chart, that’s stage four lung cancer. I’m not an oncologist so for me to be able to see that it’s pretty far advanced. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already on his way out._

_How much time, would you say?_

_I’m not an oncologist._

_So you’ve said. How much time?_

John’s mouth twists as he thinks about it. _If I had to guess -- and it would be a guess -- I wodul say a few weeks, month at most. Why?_

_Your assistance has been illuminating, doctor._

The email has a finality to it, though John feels the urge to reply back with something. The pads of his fingers slide over the grooves in the keys, but he can’t think of anything to say that isn’t entirely too familiar. John wants to ask, “Why me? Why are you asking me these questions? Why are you so curt? What do you do? Why do you bother? What is your name?” but he doesn’t, just shuts the window of his email and feels a little bit sadder for it.

Still, he gets up and goes about his day, cleans around the flat and accepts the paperwork from the messenger upon its arrival. The rest of his weekend is spent getting his wardrobe in order and going out to fill the gaps; he purchases a jumper and two new pairs of slacks, three ties from “last season’s selections” and two crisp button down shirts. He knows that the dress code is relatively casual, and there will be no one to really see him but Molly, but he wants to put at least a modicum of effort into appearing properly professional.

Monday morning dawns windy and crisp and John dresses in his favorite blue checked shirt and irons a pair of slacks on the tiny board that had been in the closet when he took the bedsit. He smooths his hair twice in the mirror and re-checks his email for the third time, confirming again his itinerary for the day.

John feels nervous, but only a bit. He knows that the majority of his day will be spent in the mandatory human resources training (how many times in his life will he be coached on what constitutes sexual harassment, he wonders?) but during the tail end of it, Molly will introduce him to the lab.

On the way in he treats himself to a medium latte and a scone and finds a bench a few blocks away from the hospital. He’s just laid out his breakfast treat when someone else comes and sits down next to him; it’s a rather large bench and so the proximity isn’t an issue but John looks over anyway, assesses the stranger. He’s tall, with artfully coiffed dark hair; he’s wearing a heavy-looking woolen coat although it’s spring and he’s so intensely focused on his mobile that John wonders if he even noticed someone sitting on the bench beside him.

John shrugs mentally and as he breaks off a piece of the scone, the man at his left scoffs, presumably at something he’s read. John doesn’t engage but does glance over using his peripheral vision and sees the man frowning, staring out at the traffic. He feels distinctly awkward and takes a sip of his coffee, willing the man silently to move along.

“Interview today,” comes a deep, rumbling baritone and John very nearly spills the hot liquid all over himself. “No… first day on the job.”

John licks his lips, shifts back against the bench and asks, “Excuse me?”

 ____“____ New jumper, newly polished shoes. Shirt not posh enough to try and make a first impression, but smart enough to still impress. You’re nervous, your hand keeps trembling and you keep bouncing your foot as though you’ve somewhere to be and you keep glancing off down the road towards your intended destination. It’s early, and you’re eating breakfast, not wanting to have to pause in what is sure to be a hectic day to find sustenance. And you’re enjoying your time outside; it’s windy and cool, not a day for sitting around, but you know you’ll be inside for a long while, possibly without natural light?”

John blinks, his tongue going dry. He is on immediate alert. Is this someone he should know? Is this someone he’s known in the past? “Right, sorry, you’re-”

“Though you’re tan, back from abroad and looking at the city as though you haven’t seen it in some time, interesting.” The man gives John a fake smile and turns his attention back to the screen of his mobile.

John glances from the man to his own breakfast, and to the traffic in the street. He goes to take a bite and then puts the piece of scone back down on the paper. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

The man hums, quirks the left side of his mouth and shrugs. “William.”

“William,” John states, though it’s a question.

“Yes, and you’re on your way to St. Bartholomew’s hospital,” he says easily, and John catches him glancing over at him. “A new… technician of some sort.”

“Sorry, wait, do we know one another? I-”

“We don’t. No.”

“Then how did you-”

“It really is fantastic what people could discern from the world if they simply observed.”

John finds that he’s no longer hungry and wraps his breakfast back up in the bag it came in. “And you know all that just by looking at me?”

 

“Indeed. Just as I know that you’re confident in your abilities and have nothing to worry about,” William says, almost kindly, though the tone leaves much to be desired. “The work day begins at eight on the dot, does it not? You’ve fifteen minutes to make it; better hurry.”

John goggles at William, feeling he’s in the middle of some scripted episode that he’s not had time to memorize, and then glances down at his watch. There are indeed fifteen minutes for him to make it to Bart’s. He’d lost track of time, being picked apart by a stranger on a park bench. “Right, well, yeah, thanks.”

John shakes his head and stands, wraps his hand tighter around his coffee cup and clarifies: “For the time, for letting me know the time.”

William doesn’t look up at him, simply waves his hand in a dismissive manner and begins tapping once more at his mobile. John picks up his pace–difficult with his cane–and makes it to the hospital with seven minutes to spare. Once he finds the room that his orientation is to be in, he pulls out his own mobile to silence it but realizes that he has three new messages in his inbox.

The room is slowly filling but the speaker doesn’t appear to be present, so John checks his email. He’s not sure why he’s not surprised, not sure why he breathes a sigh of relief when he sees that there is one from Guest.

_What is your knowledge of veterinary medicine?_

John raises a brow, looks around the room and then types back a response. _Not great, why?_

Just then, the human resources representative comes in, looking harried, and asks that everyone turn off their phones; John pockets his mobile for the next three hours. He’s rescued at lunch by Mike, who comes by the session and whispers to the speaker before taking a folder from her and motioning for John to follow him from the room.

“And how did you manage that?” John asks with a pat to Mike’s back.

Mike just smiles back at him and says, “They were just going to cover all of the NHS stuff; told her you’re a veteran and a doctor and you were set. Just sign the papers and you’re officially a Bart’s employee once again.”

“I was never really an employee before,” John says, following Mike onto the lift.

“Student, employee, what’s the difference. You get paid now, I suppose, but it’s the same hoops you have to jump through.”

John laughs. “You make it sound so appealing.”

“Yeah, well, I’m jaded. Now, are you taking me to lunch to thank me for setting you up to jump through these hoops, is my question.”

\---

John does take him to lunch and then Mike brings John back down to sub basement B. He meets up with Molly to go over the rest of the paperwork and once she hands him his permanent identification badge with Associate Morgue Technician emblazoned on it, there are still three hours left in the day.

Molly begins showing him the process for intake and John is paying close attention. It’s quite different from intake on a living patient--this he knows--and he wants to learn it properly. They’re halfway through the procedure on notification of next of kin when the doors to the lab burst noisily open, hitting the wall before swinging closed.

“I!” Molly squeaks and jumps, and John too is startled at the quiet being disrupted; he straightens and takes in the entrant.

His face morphs from shock to a scowl when he sees the man from the bench, grinning at him and primly pulling off his leather gloves. “You-” John begins but is interrupted by Molly.

“Sherlock, goodness! You’ve startled me half to death, and John here-”

Sherlock chuckles, deeply, his dimples dotting his cheeks. “John’s been in more startling situations, Molly. After all, he’s recently home from Afghanistan.”

John rolls his eyes, sets his mouth and doesn’t allow his gaze to stray to Molly. Molly, for her part, takes a moment before speaking. “John, you didn’t tell me… you know Sherlock?”

John’s lips twist and his nostrils flare as he sizes up the man before him. “This, this is the man you and Mike were talking about?” He asks, finally casting her a sideways look. “This is Sherlock?”

“Holmes,” Sherlock adds, voice holding a definite note of pride.

Molly swallows, shoves her hands in her labcoat pockets, pulls them out and makes a beeline for the back of the lab. “Sorry, Sherlock, I’ll erm, let me get those specimens that you wanted and I’ll just, and this is John Watson, he’s my new, that’s just… he’s the new technician working with me.”

Sherlock doesn’t take his eyes off of John, just smiles placidly and says, “Yes, I know.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock chuckles silently and writes another line of text. “Who you were with? You didn’t realize who you were with?”
> 
> “Sorry,” John is confused, pressing his fore and middle finger to the center of his forehead and interjects. “Are you quoting _The Godfather_?”

“You told me your name was William.” John says, once Molly is out of earshot. Sherlock switches his tiny smile to the other side of his mouth and takes a step over to the nearest occupied gurney. 

“Well,” Sherlock says, peering down at the body. “Yes.”

John frowns. “William.”

“We can do away with the subterfuge now; it’s abundantly clear that you pose no risk to me.” Sherlock sounds almost bored, pulls out a small notebook and begins jotting things down into it. 

John takes a step back, crosses his arms over his chest; he finds it a bit more difficult to do with the lab coat on. “Risk?”

Sherlock stands abruptly and faces John. He straightens his spine to stand at his full height and John finds himself standing up a bit taller as well. “The press, they’re always clamoring. After the incident with _The Daily Mail_ one can’t be too careful.”

John swallows, takes a step back from the gurney. If he’s being followed by the newspapers, he must be someone of interest. John scratches at the back of his neck, making a mental note to try and catch up on some of the more recent happenings in London. “I didn’t realize, I didn’t know-”

Sherlock chuckles silently and writes another line of text. “Who you were with? You didn’t realize who you were with?”

“Sorry,” John is confused, pressing his fore and middle finger to the center of his forehead and interjects. “Are you quoting _The Godfather_?”

There is a beat of silence and then a very crisp, “What?”

“The film, _The Godfather_ , when--no, nevermind. Sherlock…” John tests on his tongue. 

“Holmes,” he helpfully supplies in return.

John presses his lips together at the annoying tone of his answer. “Strange name.”

“Mmm, yes, _John Watson_ , and your name is exceedingly, mind-numbingly common.” Sherlock straightens and they glare at one another. There’s the sound of Molly knocking something onto the floor in the office and John’s attention is stolen for a moment. When he glances back at Sherlock, Sherlock’s eyes look as though they haven’t strayed from watching him. 

“How did you know my name?” John asks eventually.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and points at John’s left pectoral with his pen. “Your name badge.”

“Oh, right.” John’s face flushes pink at the embarrassing oversight. He doesn’t want to concede anything to this very obviously haughty man; Sherlock’s entire bearing, from his posh clothes to his obvious public-school upbringing digs at the lower-class chip that John has on his shoulder. 

Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice, instead glancing back at his notebook and carrying on. “I am quite talented, I have to say, but alas no, I cannot deduce proper names. Not for lack of trying, I assure you. Where the _blast_ is Molly,” Sherlock growls, prattling on. “She’s far too leisurely this morning, a side effect of your first day? Unclear, but this won’t do!” 

The last bit he barks out as his eyes flash and his nostrils flare and John listens as the do rings out in a bit of an echo in the cavernous room. 

Sherlock glares from the office to John and back once again and narrows his gaze at John, as though seeing him for the first time and finding something troubling. “You’re not frightened of me.”

John huffs out a little laugh through his nose. “Should I be?”

Sherlock purses his lips. “None of the other technicians would work with me.”

“Who said I was going to work with you?” John asks defiantly, his fingers digging into his biceps. 

Sherlock’s gaze flickers down to John’s hands, where they’re pressed as fists to his chest, and then back to his eyes. “You need this position, at least for the time being, and Molly is technically your supervisor and Molly is… enamored of me.”

John rolls his eyes, “So I heard. Not sure why that’s supposed to-”

Sherlock shoves his notebook back into his coat, snags a chart off of the body before him and begins flipping through it. John reaches forward and snatches it right back, smacking it down on a vacant gurney with a metallic slap. Sherlock raises his brows, amused smile curving his lips, and John fumes and they stare at one another in stand off.

John passes his tongue over his lower lip and takes a breath, tipping his chin in Sherlock’s direction. “All of those things you knew about me, how did you…”

Sherlock laughs to himself and bends back towards the body, sniffing it. “How did I know all of that?”

“Get _away_ from the body,” John growls and takes a step towards Sherlock.

Sherlock’s smirk is slow in coming and his eyes flash with something John knows Sherlock hopes is danger, but it falls flat. John Watson has seen danger and this man is not dangerous, not even close. He’s a smarmy, entitled git who has been allowed to walk all over Molly Hooper and thinks that he can do the same with John. 

Sherlock licks his lips, tilts his head and asks, “Or what?”

John feels a hot stab of rage sizzle down his spine; the sheer nerve of this Sherlock Holmes… “Or I’ll have you removed!”

“You won’t remove me yourself, then… Captain?”

“How did you-”

“God, it’s as if you’re on a loop!” Sherlock chuckles, patronizingly. “Your bearing, you’re in the army, or were, that much is obvious. The way you hold yourself, ramrod straight; your entire demeanor screams military. You’re used to giving people orders and having people follow them, so, a leadership position. Please, you’d have to be _blind_ not to see it.” Sherlock ponders for a moment. “Or really just a normal human, you’d have to be a normal, common idiot not to see it.”

John’s eyes narrow at the idiot bit. He licks his lips and considers. “So you just… _saw_ all of that in me?”

“Mmm,” Sherlock hums and pulls out his mobile. “Just as I know you were invalided home from the war and have a psychosomatic limp.” John’s eyes flash at that. “Which your therapist has diagnosed, quite rightly.”

John’s teeth grind against one another as he tries to shake off the feeling of being peeled open. He very nearly feels violated. “How… could you possibly know I have a therapist.”

“You’re back from the war and you want to collect your pension, and to get your pension you have to do the prescribed course of treatment set out by the army once being discharged, of course you have a therapist.” Sherlock shrugs and rounds the body, peeking down at the hair on the dead man’s head. “You’ll have, hm… a small bedsit, somewhere that’s cheap but not far from Barts. You are…” Sherlock glances at him, “Not an only child and, ah, yes, single.”

John presses his lips firmly together and huffs out his irritation through his nose. If Sherlock can be smarmy and patronizing, so can he. “Your _parlour_ trick is quite… impressive.”

Sherlock turns to him immediately, his countenance severe. “It’s not a trick.” The ‘k’ is crisp and loud.

John smirks at having effectively angered Sherlock. “No?” he asks, innocently. “What is it, then?”

“It is my job to observe,” Sherlock says coldly. 

John’s arms unwind and he finds himself rounding the gurney, two fingers trailing along it. “What, then, is your job?” John smiles to himself; he’s not really curious, he’s just wondering how he can get another zinger in. 

Sherlock sniffs and straightens as Molly reenters the room. “You wouldn’t understand.”

John mimics his body language and crosses his arms back over his chest, the elbows of his white coat chafing his skin; he realizes--too late--how standoffish he looks. “Try me.”

For a moment there is silence, Molly halting halfway across the room. Sherlock stares at John, looks his fill, from the tips of his shoes to the top of his head and John swears he sees a ghost of a smile flicker across Sherlock’s mouth. “Perhaps some other time. Molly has the samples I need and they’re quite time sensitive.”

Molly takes that as her cue to shuffle over and present Sherlock with a bright orange biohazard container encased in a thick, clear, plastic bag. “Uhm, I could only manage two, as there were two John Doe bodies for cremation, and they’re not… well, they’re not the freshest but-”

“These will do fine, thank you, Molly,” Sherlock says, his voice taking on a softer tone, and John watches on as Molly’s apprehension at walking in on their tense situation melts away. John has to try very hard indeed not to roll his eyes at the spectacle. 

 

“Oh, you know, anytime I have them in.” She smiles. “Not those, specifically, but when I have something interesting in I-I call you!”

Sherlock nods his head once more in thanks and spins on his heels, his coat flaring in what John believes is a purposefully showy manner. God, what an entitled, abrasive prick. Between knowing exactly the effect he has on women and using it to his advantage (because it cannot possibly be just Molly who is infatuated with tall, dark, handsome, and mean), and his inability to _read a damned room_ and shut his gob, John thinks that this is very possibly the most off-putting man he’s ever met.

When Sherlock reaches the door, he turns back, ducks his head and winks. “Afternoon!”

It takes a moment--the _thwunk, thwunk_ of heavy metal losing momentum loud in the cavernous space--but doors finally swing shut. John sighs and wipes a palm over his face. “Well he’s…”

Molly blinks up at John, waiting patiently for him to finish his thought but he never does. 

“Well,” she finally sighs, a little dreamily. “Now that that’s squared away, shall we?”

“Yeah. Yeah, yeah,” John nods, eyes still focused on the door. “Just, sorry, what did you give him?”

“Oh,” Molly plucks the chart from the gurney and ducks her head as though reading intently. Her reply is very, very quiet. “Just some tongues.”

John goggles from Molly to the doors, wondering what he could possibly need with tongues. He feels the anger bubbling in his gut and mutters under his breath, “That man must be mad.” He takes up his own chart once more and whispers, in addendum, “And John Watson isn’t a fucking boring name, knobhead.”

\---

John finishes up his first day around five and begs off when Mike texts to ask if he’d like to get a drink. His hips and shoulder are throbbing, having not had to undertake such a long day of being in use in quite some time. John makes a mental note to make an appointment for a physio tuneup and sets off down the road towards his flat. 

It’s a good two miles and he stops along the way, pressing into his sore muscles in an attempt to reduce the cramps there. After twenty minutes he has to find a bench and sit, fist clenching against his thigh in aggravation. He knows he won’t regain full use of his leg overnight but even having to stop in a leisurely walk home is embarrassing. 

_Just as I know you were invalided home from the war and have a psychosomatic limp_ , he hears echoed in his head and John closes his eyes and wills the voice away. He doesn’t want to consider for a moment that the man from the morgue is right, that it’s his own brain working against his body, not allowing him to get better. He doesn’t _want_ to consider it and so he doesn’t, instead banishing the thought and roughly tugging his mobile from his trouser pocket.

Even as he does he hears the same deep, rich baritone saying _Just as I know that you’re confident in your abilities and have nothing to worry about_. The man on the bench--William--had nearly been charming, in a mysterious, strange sort of way. The man in the morgue had been entirely off-putting and obviously out to undermine what little authority John had. 

With a small harrumph--mostly because he knows he’s sure to have to interact with Sherlock Holmes again--he opens the email application and begins scrolling through. 

There, nestled between another email from Harry and one from the NHS reminding him of the criteria that he must meet in order to retain his medical license, is a reply from Guest.  
John clicks on _**no subject (3)** :It’s no matter, I’ve gone to the veterinarian and all is well._

John glances up and down the street, oddly buoyed by the message. To go to the veterinarian would imply that Guest owns an animal of some kind. The image of a solitary man or woman seated on a sofa with a cat in their lap comes to mind and John smiles at the image of it. He can’t help that he’s intrigued by Guest; Guest is so strange and yet seems intelligent--if a bit strange--and self-possessed. It couldn’t hurt to learn a bit more, and sending these emails actually helps John feel more connected to the world, in a strange way. 

He responds. _Had to take your pet in for something? Glad to hear all is well and sorry I didn’t see your message before I went into my-_

He pauses, considers.

_-meeting._ John finishes and sends the email off into the ether. 

John is deleting the rest of his inbox when his phone pings with a reply from Guest. _My dog Redbeard was quite unwell. I suspect he somehow got into the garbage and ate something. Everything is fine now._

_What kind of dog is Redbeard?_

_Irish setter._

_Those are absolutely beautiful dogs, though I’ve heard they’re very enthusiastic. :)_ John can’t help it; he immediately imagines a woman or man with the head of a dog in their lap, petting at it as they send John these emails. It brings him an odd swell of joy that rolls from his gut to his chest, and he allows himself to lean back against the hard bench and daydream a bit.

A woman, freckles, and long brown hair, short nails clicking over the keys of her laptop as the dog paces by the door, waiting to go out. A man, bald, thick fingers tapping over his PC’s keyboard while a dog rests by his feet. It almost gives the emails an intimate quality, knowing something so, well, _intimate_ about Guest. He doesn’t know Guest at all, but he knows that pets are animals that their owners generally _love_ and… does that mean Guest _loves_ something?

It feels decidedly romantic, thinking about this anonymous person _loving_ something. John rolls his shoulders, almost uncomfortable with how much he’s thinking about the presently, entirely-fictionalized life of Guest. 

His phone pings. _He’s difficult to keep up with, to be sure, but reliable. He does enjoy making friends which I deplore._

_You deplore making friends?_

The response is almost immediate, and John finds himself wishing--for some reason--that he could chat with Guest, over an instant messaging program. _Human beings are so dull; they’re never as captivating as you’d like them to be. They’re as boring as breathing, but Redbeard does enjoy getting to know them and who am I to stop him. It’s the women that I can’t stand, honestly._

John’s brow furrows at that, and he rereads the last line of text. Could it be that Guest is a man? Could Guest be referring to the convention that “women are attracted to men with dogs”? John knows that this isn’t necessarily the case but he’s heard the line enough times to think that perhaps this is what Guest is referring to.

_You’re a man then?_ His face twists with indecision as he reads his reply and then he slams his eyes shut, bites his lip and hits the ‘send’ button before he can second guess himself. 

John rockets himself off of the bench and strides forward on the pavement, in the direction of his flat; his fists pump back and forth at his sides. He simultaneously can’t believe he asked such a question and realizes that the question is entirely innocuous. He can’t help wanting to flesh out Guest a bit more in his imagination.

He makes it three blocks before he has to stop and check his email, huffing at his own inability to be patience as he does so. There’s a reply, the chain of their replies titled a bold, _**no subject (13)**_. For a brief moment John wonders if he’s ever in his life been part an email chain this long. 

_Problem?_ is all it reads and John ignores the blinking walk signal and shuffles back out of the way of passersby. 

_No, no problem. It’s all fine. Just wondering about who I’mn talking to._ His pointer finger pokes at the screen gently and John glances up the road with a smile and finally crosses the street.

 

\---

There are no more emails from Guest that evening, which is good, because John forgets to check his email until just before he goes to bed. For some reason he decides he wouldn’t like to leave a message from Guest waiting in his inbox for very long. Their interactions have very much felt like conversations, and lapsing in his end of the dialogue would make him feel as though he was being rude.

The next morning, there’s a bit of a spring in his step as he makes his way to Bart’s; he stops for a latte and lingers on the pavement finishing it before heading inside and down to the basement. He’s still caught up in the thoughts of a man with an Irish Setter curled up on his bed. It’s a perfectly barmy thought but he entertains it anyhow as he shoves through the swinging doors to the morgue.

John’s good mood evaporates instantly upon spying a tall figure perched on a stool over a body. Molly is nowhere to be seen and so John tosses down his shoulder bag with a loud clang.

Sherlock just smiles placidly at him, watches as he moves across the room and turns on the lights in the office, just for something to do. When he returns to the main room, he advances on Sherlock with his hands on his hips, trying very hard to bring all of his military bearing to his frame. “Does Molly even know you’re here?”

“No, but she’ll be pleased to find me here, I assure you.”

“Jesus-how.” John shakes his head, outraged. “You’re a piece of-How do you sleep at night?”

Sherlock’s smile stretches brighter at John’s flubbering speech. “Sleep? Oh, I don’t sleep, sleep is boring.” Sherlock tilts his head to the left and then spins fifteen degrees to the left on the stool, facing John fully. “You object so heartily to the nature of my relationship with Molly. Why?”

John’s teeth grind; he imagines he’ll be doing much of that in the future if he’s around Sherlock Holmes. “She’s a kind woman, and it’s obvious you’re stringing her along. It’s cruel.”

“Is it? Cruel?” Sherlock baits.

John shakes his head with a bitter laugh. “You’re such a bastard, an absolute bastard. Can’t imagine who’d want you to begin with.”

Sherlock’s hand snakes behind his own back and he snatches up a paper cup of coffee and takes a sip. When he’s through, the smile is gone from his face and his eyes are--they’re not cold, but they’re icy with something that looks almost like… hurt.

“Yes. Can’t imagine.” With that, Sherlock gets up from the stool and turns. “And you’re an aging ex-military adrenaline junkie who can't even overcome his own psychosomatic symptoms, so it's no wonder they stuck you in the morgue with dead people as you'd be hopeless trying to help living ones.”

John feels like he’s been punched straight in the gut; he’s so stunned that he can’t even morph his face to feel as outraged as he is. Instead he stands there stock still and watches as Sherlock leaves, punching his way through the swinging doors.


	5. Chapter 5

_Do you ever feel you’ve become the worst version of yourself?_ He types it carefully into the tiny, white window and stops, index finger shifting to and hovering over the “delete” button. Sherlock tugs at his hair with his free hand, simultaneously completely irrational for needing human interaction and desperately in need of someone to talk to, and is confused that he’s even considering any of this as valid.

This feels... far too personal; it _is_ far too personal. The bit about Redbeard, that had felt too much as well, but he’d had such a fantastic day--two tongues!--that he’d let his buoyant mood get the best of him. He’d told a complete stranger about his dog, the one thing in the world that he truly cared about. 

He’d opened himself up to John5NF on a whim and--if he really thinks about it, really considers what he’s doing--hadn’t _actually_ felt strange about doing so. And now he’s reaching out to John5NF again because…

Because...

Sherlock sighs, closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s reaching out because he feels _wretched_. Sherlock feels guilty and ashamed at what he’d said to John in the lab and wants to alleviate the feeling by sharing it with someone. That’s what people do, isn’t it?

God, even _he_ can admit he’d been a complete arsehole to the new morgue technician; he’d zoned in on the man’s inner fears and had gone straight for the kill shot without a second thought.

 _Never thinking before you speak,_ chides a voice in his head that sounds _remarkably_ like his brother. 

 

The righteousness had worn off as soon as he’d reached street level and he’d actually thought about turning around, taking the elevator back down to the basement, and apologizing to John. 

There’s a burning in the pit of his stomach now, and aftershocks of regret thrill through him, making him feel entirely foreign. He’s never had this problem in the past, not really. He’s never considered anyone’s feelings before. It’s...well, if he’s being honest, it’s rather a horrid feeling.

He’s not sure why he says these things, half of the time. Sometimes, his mouth moves at the speed of his brain and he can’t edit the words that come out. Sometimes he thinks he means them and sometimes he doesn’t, but he never usually feels this positively _awful_ about any of it.

Sherlock is unsure what spurred him to open the email client on his phone--the account he'd created solely for Guest--and while he finds that odd, he doesn’t dwell on it. What he does consider for some length of time is his compulsion to email a stranger about his…

_Feelings._

Boring, trite, useless feelings. 

Even as he stares down at the question he’s posed, he feels foolish and wrong-footed and entirely ridiculous; god, having emotions is exhausting, Sherlock thinks. Why is he reaching out to a stranger for-

For what, exactly?

Sherlock scowls down at the screen, prepared to send the drafted email into the trash, when the taxi swerves violently, the driver shouting out a curse. When Sherlock rights himself, he finds the email gone from the screen of his phone. There’s a different burning in his stomach now, as he immediately opens his sent messages folder to find the _no subject_ draft. Frustrated, he quickly googles whether or not he can retrieve a sent mail and to his dismay, finds that it’s impossible. He then checks that the email was at least sent from the Guest account and not his general one and is relieved to see that it was.

Sherlock groans. “Learn to bloody drive!” he growls at the driver and flops himself back against the seat, bringing a palm down over his face in defeat. 

Upon arriving at his flat, he goes about his evening as planned: he checks the decomposition rate of the tongues and notes them in a spreadsheet. He drinks a pot of tea with too much sugar and tunes his violin, though he does not play it. Eventually Redbeard trots to the door and waits patiently with his leash in mouth for Sherlock to recognize that the dog requires his evening walk. When they return from St. James, Sherlock wanders the flat, aimless, though not bored.

He’s consumed entirely with thoughts of the email he’d accidentally sent.

He feels… not entirely ridiculous, and then feels ridiculous for _not_ feeling so.

How childish. How _sentimental_. How completely and utterly unlike him. For a brief moment, Sherlock considers blocking the email address for John5NF@gmail.com--having this all over and done with--but the thought causes a dull wave of something like sadness to roll through his chest. It’s absurd; he’d only gone into the chatroom looking for sound medical advice! 

He doesn’t _know_ this person, has no attachment and yet-

Sherlock’s phone pings with a new email. 

He ignores completely how his heart leaps to his throat at the sound.

 _What do you mean?_ it reads. Not _No, of course not_ or _You sound mad_ or _Why am I speaking with you in the first place, stranger? You know nothing about me or I you and this is all meaningless._

He swallows thickly, feels very, very small and awkward as he sends back, _Forget I asked anything, that was sent in error._ There, that should make matters quite plain. Sherlock doesn’t want to get any further into this.

But then, two minutes later there is another new message. Growling, Sherlock opens it, as though it pains him, and reads it twice before blinking across the room at the wall. _Look, this may seem weird or strange but you can talk to me if you’d like. I quite like emailing with you and I wanted you to know that if you’d like to talk about whatever, I’ve got nothing on. :)_

Sherlock doesn’t know what to say to that. He turns it over in his head for quite some time, deliberately avoiding how John5NF’s offer makes him feel. That someone cares, that someones wants to hear what he has to say is, well, extraordinary.

Pocketing his mobile out of sheer confliction, he avoids responding to the email. He gets himself ready for bed and feeds Redbeard, thinking about John5NF all the while. About why he wants to tell him things, all of a sudden, about why he even struck up a conversation outside of the chat room in the first place.

Sherlock is lying in bed, thumb rubbing against the indent of the earpiece of his mobile, willing himself not to pick it up; Redbeard snuffles into his side and reminds him that he really ought to sleep but he can’t stop his mind from wandering back to the email waiting in his inbox. 

He huffs out his annoyance and unlocks his phone, looks at John5NF’s email and wonders _why_. He wonders why this man wants to talk with him, wonders how desperate and sad and _alone_ John5NF must be, and then realizes that he too is in the same boat.

Alone.

Alone: it generally protects him, but now he feels unsettled and raw and just _bad_ about himself. And he _wants_ to talk with someone about it. Who better than a complete stranger who is of no danger to him? Who better than a person who’s just offered to talk with him?  
Who better to speak with than a person who has proved himself to be intelligent and present and has a very obvious moral code that he’s not afraid to rely on? Sherlock could do with someone like that; Sherlock could do with interacting with someone so unlike himself. 

His thumbs are poised over the keypad and a moment later he finds himself tapping the reply button. _Do you ever feel like a Pandora’s Box of all the secret, hateful parts -- your arrogance, your spite, your condescension -- has sprung open? That instead of ignoring some hateful thing or person or moving on from it that you can’t help but respond, retaliate in a vicious way? I get the distinct impression that you will have absolutely no idea what I’m talking about._ Sherlock chews at the nail of his right thumb and sends the email off.

It’s a blessedly short time before he has his reply. _No, I know what you mean. I had a bit of that myself, today. Happened both to me and by me. It was rather awful._

Sherlock’s mouth perks in a half-smile at that, that somehow, in some small way, he and John5NF are sharing something, a common experience. _I have to say, I did not expect it to make me feel this regretful. I didn’t honestly expect to think of it at all, after the fact, after it left my mouth. I generally don’t._

 _Well, you hate people. Isn’t that what you said? Does it have something to do with that?_ He rereads John5NF’s reply twice and frowns at it. 

_I don’t hate people,_ Sherlock types, not wanting--for some reason--John5NF to feel hated by him. Or to think that he’s a bad person. Scratching at his chin, Sherlock thinks for a moment, swallows down his hesitation and continues. _They’re tedious, and boring. People tend not to take to me, nor I to them, which is fine._ Sherlock taps his mobile to his mouth while he thinks of what he wants to say; how he can possibly properly convey what he’s striving to? _That is to say I’m highly intelligent and I find others slow and dim-witted. I can be needlessly cruel,_ Sherlock writes and swallows against the slight shame of the admission. He presses his eyes closed and then opens them again, willing himself on. _I was very cruel to someone today and I cannot stop thinking about it._

 _I can see the finding people who aren’t as intelligent as you thinkg annoying. Can you apologize to this person? This happens all of the time. People say things that they don’t mean. I myself did that recently and felt rather bad about it._

_What did you do to resolve the situation?_ Sherlock asks, biting his lip, absentmindedly scratching Redbeard behind his ears. 

_Nothing. Just stood there as I had it served back to me. Part of me thinks they deserved what I said to begin withthough. They’re not a very good person, from what I can gather but that doesn’t mean that I don’t feel bad about it. Stooping to their level, you know? I guess you should apologize if it feels right to do so but sometimes when people are cruel to you that doesn’t help. Though I can’t help thinking even now, what I should have said back to them. My mind was blank. Don’t you hate when that happens? Does it even happen to you?_

_No, it doesn’t happen to me. That’s part of the problem._ Sherlock snorts. _I have to say, you’re advice isn’t very helpful._

Redbeard is fully awake and engaged now, scootching over on the bed to settle his head in Sherlock’s lap. “I know,” Sherlock says to him, accusingly. “I’m a terrible human, keeping you up. You could always sleep in the sitting room, you know. Or perhaps that enormous and expensive dog bed that’s on the floor.”

Redbeard simply blinks up at him as though to say “Silly human” and then snuffles down into Sherlock’s t-shirt.

Sherlock notes the time, nearly gone two in the morning, and isn’t surprised when he doesn’t receive a response from John5NF. The man’s likely asleep by now, as any sane Londoner would be. 

His phone pings, just as he’s about to rest it on his bedside table for the evening. _Listen I didn’t say I’d be any good at giving advice. I’m pretty shit at it and probably wouldn’t take my own advice for myself but in situations like this it sometimes helps to talk it out with someone. Or type it out with someone I guess._

He can’t help it; Sherlock laughs at John5NF’s attempt at levity. _Type it out with someone._ It’s stupid, not even a joke really, just calling attention to what they’re doing, but Sherlock laughs at it, regardless. 

_Wouldn’t it be wonderful if I could pass all of my seemingly endless ability to speak cruelly to you, and then I would never behave badly and you could be cruel all the time, when you needed to be, and we’d both be better for it? Then, on the other hand, I must warn you, that when you finally have the pleasure of saying the thing you mean to say at the moment you mean to say it, it may not feel as perfect as expected._ He sends that off, feeling better for having admitted that he feels remorse at his words and actions and turns off the sound on his phone before placing it face down on at the side of his bed. 

Sherlock will read John5NF’s response in the morning, perhaps before he makes his way down to Bart’s to try and clear the air with the morgue technician. After all, if John Watson is sticking around--unlike the several technicians before him--it would do Sherlock well to stay on his good side. 

Sherlock almost smiles; he’s taking this John’s advice to help in a situation with another John. God, the whole of society really was so boring with it’s conventionally, bland names. Then again, perhaps John5NF had chosen that username because it afforded him even more anonymity. Just another John amongst a sea of Johns. Sherlock hopes-for some reason he cannot discern-that John5NF is that clever. 

Sherlock closes his eyes, tries to settle down, turns his thoughts back to the morgue technician and muses on how much easier it would be if he could simply flirt his way out of the situation, like he does with Molly.

It occurs to him, moments later, that this is perhaps _exactly_ what he should do with John Watson. Sherlock hadn’t bothered to deduce anything about John’s sexual orientation--dull, boring, and pointless unless he could use the knowledge to his advantage--but he’ll surely make note of it the next time he sees the man.

Sherlock wonders briefly if this is the best tactic to use, if he does find that he can use flirting to help his cause. He wonders if this makes him cruel, like his words earlier in the day had made him seem. He wonders a lot of things as he drifts off.

He wonders why he’s wondering about them at all. 

\---

When Sherlock wakes--having slept an astonishing five hours--he reaches immediately for his mobile. He makes a show (for no one but himself) of sifting through his email, of checking the comments on his website, just to prove that he _can_ , before he opens the response from John5NF. 

_Not sure about being cruel,_ it reads. _Perhaps a little more able to speak my mind and get to the point without spending so long reacting to something. That would be helpful, yeah. Mind if I have some, actually? I’ll give you a bit of my ability to both shut up and turn the other cheek and be civil, even when the other party can’t. How do we trade off on this?_

Sherlock tosses a hand over his eyes and laughs, the noise waking the dog at his side. Immediately, Redbeard sticks his wet nose against Sherlock’s throat in greeting and then gives his chin a lick. “Good morning to you as well,” Sherlock says and then chuckles, half at his dog and half at John5NF. 

_I’m not sure I’d know what to do with either of those abilities,_ Sherlock types back, the dog’s head against his chest making it more difficult than it would usually be. _But I appreciate your willingness to share them with me._

Sherlock takes Redbeard for a short walk, grabbing himself a latte with an extra shot beforehand. They meander around St. James’ Park and then Sherlock checks on the tongues again, showers, shaves and dresses for the day. He takes special care to adorn himself in his most striking ensemble. He leaves the top two buttons of his plum shirt open and forgoes the blazer that he would normally wear.

With his greatcoat over his arm he hails a cab to St. Bart’s; he feels a bit lighter this morning. He realizes that it likely has to do with the email exchanges from John5NF and while yesterday he would have rebuked himself for indulging in such seemingly pointless correspondence, he finds that at the moment he’s not in the least perturbed by it. 

There’s a coffee cart just outside of the main entrance to Bart’s and Sherlock walks briskly by it before an idea strikes him. He backtracks, orders two large coffees, gathers a pocketful of creamer cups and sugar packets, and goes into the building. It’s as close to an olive branch as he can manage given the circumstances.

It’s gone half nine by the time he makes it down to the morgue, using a confiscated badge to gain entry to the room. Sherlock pushes through the door with his shoulder and is immediately assaulted by the pleasing sound of a bone saw doing its job. 

A moment later the whirring stops, and Molly greets him. “Oh, hello Sherlock. Nothing in for you today, I’m afraid. Not yet, anyway. Not, erm-” She glances down at the gore covering her rubber apron and winces. “It’s the… the brain. I need to-”

“No need for an explanation, Molly,” he smiles at her and glances around the room, on the lookout for John. “Shall I just leave your coffee-”

“You bought me coffee?” She asks, happily. “Why?”

“Do I need a reason?”

She puts the bone saw down on the table and strips herself of the overlarge protective gloves she has on. She pushes the safety goggle back, up into her hair and she takes a step forward. “Usually, well… yes, actually.”

Sherlock purses his lips and holds up the proffered cup and she takes it. “Did you bring cream, too?” He reaches into his pocket with a sly smile and drops two little containers into her upturned palm. “That’s… thanks. The other one, is that for-”

At that moment, John rounds the corner out of the office, head bent towards a file in hand. When he looks up, his face is unreadable. There was something like surprise in his gaze right before he masked it with stoicism. He twists his lips into a frown and manages a bland, “Oh.”

“Good morning, John,” Sherlock says and takes a step towards him. John’s eyes drop, lingering on the swath of skin that Sherlock’s left revealed at his neck, and in the next moment, John’s eyes sweep his whole body. Ah, not entirely uninterested, then. Or, John can perhaps appreciate the male form. When their eyes meet again, John’s cheeks have gone the tiniest bit pink, his mouth slipping open a fraction.

Sherlock manages to curtail the smile of victory that threatens to spread across his face. Instead, he holds out the second cup of coffee towards John, who eyes it warily. “What’s that?”

“Coffee,” Sherlock tries, keeping the snideness out of his voice. “It’s coffee.”

“Why?” John asks immediately, his voice hard.

He can no longer help it, he rolls his eyes and plunks the paper cup down on the worktop. “Just… take the damned coffee, John.”

Sherlock can’t help the bite that in his voice--the impatience that’s always there--but it’s not as malicious as he perhaps could be. Pursing his lips, John steps forward and looks down at the cup. “Black?”

Sherlock nods once.

John sniffs primly, lifts the cup and take a sip. “Thanks.” Olive branch accepted, Sherlock ducks his head in acknowledgement of the thanks and takes a step back towards the doors.

“Wait then,” Molly says over the rim of her own cup, eyes wide with shock. “What did you need?”

“Need?” Sherlock asks, innocently, pulling out his mobile and fiddling with it as a means of distraction. “Nothing.”

“So you just,” her voice is tinged with suspicion, “...just came to bring us coffee?”

He glances up briefly from his mobile, playing unassuming to perfection. “Yes.”

John eyes him with suspicion, takes another sip and lifts his face in an attempt at a smile. “Right. Ta, then.” With that, he sets his folder down, takes a seat on one of the stools, and effectively ignores the fact that Sherlock is in the room.

But Sherlock knows better. From the appraising glance to the acceptance of the coffee, Sherlock can tell that John Watson will forgive him, and shortly. Sherlock gives John another once over of his own, notes that though the button up he’s wearing is in a terrible print, he has a fit body and broad shoulders. He notes too that John is hovering close to forty, used to play rugby, and is stubborn and fiercely loyal. He is rather what people would call a “good bloke.”

He smiles to himself and Molly catches him at it, her eyes narrowing as she tries to figure him out; her tongue runs beneath her top lip and over her teeth as she makes an attempt at deducing him. “Right,” she says eventually. “Alright, well, thanks. I mean, thank you for the coffee Sherlock. We… appreciate it.”

“Yep, bye now,” John says, sounding bored, but _too_ bored, too put out. Sherlock takes that as sure victory and without another word he heads back out the way he came.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John frowns, rolls his eyes and blows out a breath. “I’m sorry. I think we… no, we definitely got off on the wrong foot.”

Sherlock works a bit more with the tongues once he returns to Baker Street, but after an hour and a half of fidgeting with his microscope he feels restless and bored; it’s only half noon and he doesn’t have anything on for the remainder of the day, which is unacceptable. He putters about the flat, but It’s an hour before he finds himself at New Scotland Yard, gaining entry to the building with the pilfered ID card of one Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.

He picks his way across Sally Donovan’s desk--she should know better than to leave casefiles out in the open, really--before he saunters into Lestrade’s office with no warning.

Lestrade rolls his eyes and continues speaking on the phone, holding up a solitary finger and telling Sherlock silently to wait. Instead, Sherlock reaches across the desk and picks up a folder, begins idly flipping through it even as Lestrade waves his hands in a very distracting manner. 

“One second,” Lestrade says and clamps his palm over the receiver. “Jesus Christ, can you not? Please?” He tosses a pen at Sherlock for good measure and returns to his call, and Sherlock evades the projectile easily. 

He leans casually against the frosted glass wall of the office and scans the information in his hands; it’s just slightly above boring, which is something, and by the time he’s through to the end of the file, Sherlock is fairly certain he has three leads for Lestrade.

Lestrade hangs up and gestures, resigned, to the one of the empty chairs in front of his desk. “The neighbor, the dog groomer and, well, the daughter, of course,” Sherlock says as he secures his coat around himself and plunks down. “You’ll want to check with all of them.”

“Daughter is studying abroad in America,” Lestrade says, dubiously, tapping a pen to his lips.

Sherlock smiles serenely at him. “And?”

“Right, okay, fine.” Lestrade sighs, jots down a note on a post-it and sticks it atop the file. “And what could I have possibly done wrong today to be graced with your presence?” There’s no heat behind the jab, and Lestrade finishes speaking with a sassy smile. While Sherlock may rub the rest of the squad the wrong way, he and Lestrade have known one another for so long that Sherlock’s more abrasive qualities are no longer the problem they once were.

Sherlock is shocked to find himself smiling back, crossing his ankles and sitting forward. He’s being… genial. Rarely is he ever this easygoing at the Yard, even in Lestrade’s presence. How positively baffling; from the look on Lestrade’s face, it seems that he’s noticed as well. Sherlock cuts to the point of his visit, hoping that Lestrade won’t call his chipperness into question. “Bored, you must have _something_ on.”

“I call you when I’ve something on I can’t deal with,” Lestrade replies immediately and then gives Sherlock a once-over, gestures towards him with a jerk of his chin. “What’s up with you?”

“Pardon?”

Again, Lestrade rolls his eyes. “Known you going on ten years now, you look…”

Sherlock narrows his gaze.

“Happy. Giddy, or something. Christ, haven’t got a _girlfriend_ do yah?”

Lips pursed, Sherlock’s face withers; he had assumed that Lestrade understood that he wasn’t interested in things of that nature. Apparently, he’d put far too much faith in the man. “Not… really my area.”

“Ah, well.” Lestrade shrugs and scratches at the back of his neck. “A bloke then?”

“No,” Sherlock growls. “I’ve just come from seeing Molly Hooper.”

Lestrade’s eyes go a bit wide at that, “Molly! ...Hooper!” The disbelief in Lestrade’s voice is expected. Sherlock has been dodging her advances for years, and while he isn’t interested in her romantically, he does rather think her a friend. It’s really _not_ his area; he’s clearly accidentally misled Lestrade.

Sherlock scoffs, rolls his eyes and crosses his legs in the other direction. “God, get your mind out of the gutter; she’s got a new morgue technician.”

“Anyone I’d like?” Lestrade makes an attempt at lecherous, but the joking tone bleeds straight through. 

Sherlock taps his lip, “Oh, well, let’s see, five foot seven, blond, a _doctor_ , army veteran…” Sherlock leads, ticking off the traits one by one.

Lestrade perks up in his chair, pursing his lips in appreciation at each attribute listed. He smiles and nods, accepting. “Well, alright, sounds-”

Sherlock’s voice falls absolutely deadpan as he says, “And if I had to deduce, a cock of average length.”

Lestrade blinks, and then groans, breaking into a wide grin. “You dick,” he says and laughs. “Right, well, not for me then. So, what _about_ the morgue technician?”

“Oh,” Sherlock thinks for a moment. He can’t for the life of him remember why he’d brought John Watson up at all. “Nothing, actually.”

“Oh,” Lestrade parrots. “Just seems like you wanted to talk about something there. Molly, the morgue technician. Is that why you’re all, all, _smiley_ today? This new technician bloke?”

“No,” he says, as though the notion is entirely preposterous, as though he hadn’t brought it up in the first place. 

“Right, nevermind. So… you’re here for a case?” Lestrade tries again. “That I don’t have. Because as I’ve said, I call you when I do.”

Sherlock sighs and pulls himself up out of his seat in a decidedly dramatic fashion. “How on earth the Met sees fit to keep you on the payroll I will never-”

“File on that evisceration in Vauxhall, boss,” Sally says, barging past Sherlock and dropping the file on Lestrade’s desk.

“Evisceration!” Sherlock says, indignance coloring his voice as he looks from Sally to Lestrade and back. “How did I miss that?”

“Took the file with me on my lunch break,” Sally winks at him and sashays backwards from Lestrade’s office. “Think I don’t know you rummage through my desk, arsehole?”

Sherlock wants to growl after her, but to do so would be giving Lestrade precious moments to secure the file away, and so instead, he lunges across the desk and snatches it up. “You could have just asked,” Lestrade says, tiredly, and stands. “Just… don’t take it out of my office, yeah? I’m going to get a coffee. You want?”

With a wave of his hand, Sherlock gives his answer, his head already ducked into the manila folder. It’s compelling and strange. Young female, found in an alleyway in Vauxhall, abdominal organs on the dirty blacktop.

Macabre, but interesting. Sherlock looks at the photos from every angle, rereads the report and then on a whim, takes out his mobile. John5NF had helped him before, why not now, he reasons, and indulges in a moment of pure giddiness as he address the email.

_What do you know about evisceration?_ He taps a fingernail against the side of his mobile, willing a reply to come. He doesn’t want the reply so that he’ll have an answer for Lestrade. No; he wants the answer for an entirely different reason, he realizes. He just wants to chat with John5NF, to interact, to _interest_ him. 

_Evisceration? Christ. Very little to nothing if I’m being honest. what do you need? Tell me someone wasn’t eviscerated!_ Sherlock smiles a bit at that; if John5NF only knew.

He’s still smiling when he cuts to the chase. _How easy would it be for a normal person to make the cuts necessary for expulsion of the abdominal organs?_ God, the crime scene photos really are positively gruesome, he realizes as he glances at them again; Sherlock is almost _glad_ that he hadn’t been on hand for it. He may be able to detach from certain things, but he’s not sure he would have been able to mask his obvious horror if he’d been there in person.

Perhaps it’s better that John5NF doesn’t know the exact extent of his work; it might scare him off.

_And why are you worried about scaring him off?_ a voice rings out clearly in his head. He ignores it, resolutely.

John5NF’s answer doesn’t come for a few minutes; Sherlock reads through the case file once more before he has his answer. 

_Not very easy with crude cutting. Doctors would eb able to do it maybe. But that would take time. Does the body have signs of recent surery or surgical incisions?_

Sherlock sits up straight in his chair, stares at the mobile for a second before reaching for the file. He examines the photos with a magnifying lens, torquing Lestrade’s desktop lamp over them to ensure he can see the finer details. 

There’s a close-up of the body taken at the scene--none from the lab, and he can only assume the autopsy has yet to be done. Sherlock’s head twists as he gets closer to the glossy photograph, his magnifier hovering over the very-messy-indeed abdominal cavity. And there, amongst the guts and the gore, looks to be the tell tale signs of surgical staples. They’re covered in blood, and could absolutely be mistaken for discolored skin and the wound mistaken for a crudely performed murder.

John5NF is very, very likely correct. A swell of pride fills Sherlock for a moment; Sherlock could use someone like this in his work. If only.

Lestrade saunters back in with two cups in his hands and plunks one down on the desk before Sherlock; he’d waved Lestrade off earlier but now as the scent wafts up to him, he finds he quite does want coffee. “Thank you.”

“And _thanking_ me, something is up,” Lestrade jests and falls back into his chair, rolls away from his desk a bit. “So, anything?”

“Jane Doe, found in the alleyway off of Brixton Road in Vauxhall. _You_ assumed drug deal gone wrong. But these here,” Sherlock stabs the photograph of the crime scene. “If these are staples you’re looking at a surgical mishap. Location of the supposed staples indicates some sort of incision to the abdomen, likely meaning that the victim was certainly out of the hospital against medical advice as they’d keep a patient with such an incision bedridden until healing was further along. Check the local hospitals for anyone with abdominal surgery who left against medical advice.”

“How- okay, first of all, I didn’t assume anything. The junior DI-you know what, no.” Lestrade begins, pinches the bridge of his nose and lowers his voice. “How did you know about the staples with all that… that gore?”

“Dear God, Detective Inspector, it’s a simple matter of looking at the photograph. There!” Sherlock stabs the photograph again and then sends it spinning across Lestrade’s desk.

His nose flares at the image, but Lestrade accepts Sherlock’s magnifier and checks out the photo. “Christ, the medical examiner couldn’t even get a look at that before they got him in a body bag. Wrong place, wrong time?”

“Wrong place,” Sherlock stands. “The _worst_ time. The perforation of the organs suggests a shoddy job by the surgeon, mind. If you felt like _detecting_ ,” Sherlock spits the word, “any further, you might check the record of that particular surgeon on staff, once you find her.”

“Her?”

“Mmm, and likely left handed, but then I’m not going to do _all_ of your work for you. However would you justify receiving a paycheck?”

And with that, Sherlock stands up to leave, typing out a quick response to John5NF. _I believe that your deduction was correct. _The pride swells in him again. _Well done you.___

_\---_

They exchange emails throughout the day and late into the evening. _So wait, was it police thing?_

Sherlock wants to say, he does, but he _can’t_. _You know exactly how I’m going to respond._ Sherlock types. 

_You can neither confirm nor deny that. :D_

God, Sherlock hates emoticons generally, but in these emails, he doesn’t find them entirely off-putting. Another email pings in his inbox, right on the heels of the first one. _So, I was right about it. Do I get a reward?_

_I wasn’t aware that rewards were standard for providing medical advice,_ he pecks out, smiling the whole time. _Do you require a reward to continue assisting me?_

_Require, no. I just want to know what you do, what all of this is for. It’s interseting!_

_You find eviscerations interesting?_

Sherlock makes it back to Baker Street and takes Redbeard for a jog before John responds. _Soryy, is that weird? I’m just interested. For reasons I guess I can’t share. If you can’t tell me what you do, I don’t think I should tell you what I do._

_That’s fair,_ Sherlock replies as he gulps down a glass of water. _I wish I could divulge more information to you, but unfortunately it’s sensitive._

_You do?_

Sherlock’s brow furrows. _Do what?_

_You want to tell me more? Why?_

Sherlock thinks on that for some time. _I,_ he manages and then stops. He likes chatting with John5NF, he just _enjoys_ it. It really is as startlingly simple as that. Sherlock glances across the flat, eyes falling on random objects as he tries to decide if that’s really all that is. He looks forward to it; John5NF is interesting and amusing and quite intelligent, he’s come to find. 

Sherlock doesn’t generally interact with many people in an amiable way, and it’s nice to be able to chat to someone. It makes him feel good. His thumbs go to his mobile once more. _enjoy talking with you. You’re not dull, which is certainly saying something, and you’re relatively intelligent._

John responds so quickly that Sherlock wonders if he’s waiting on Sherlock’s replies. The simple act of wondering that causes Sherlock to shiver. Is it possible that John5NF is as excited as he is to send and receive these emails? It’s so appealing to think about, it’s ridiculous to hope that John feels the same way, but… 

_Relatively intelligent? Well then, high compliment I guess, hahah. I really enjoy chatting with you as well. Is it weird to say that it’s become one of the highlights of my day?_

_Not at all,_ he types back, thrilled. Over the moon, really. _It is one of the highlights of mine, as well_

_I forgot to ask,_ John5NF sends, later. _How did it go with the person you pissed off?_ the message reads and Sherlock finds himself falling back onto his bed in a fit of delight. Half-heartedly he rebukes himself to no avail, as a smile slides up onto his face. There’s no point in trying to halt the flood of emotions that chatting with John evokes in him. 

_I think it went well. I apologized and while it wasn’t outright accepted, I believe that things have been smoothed over, so to speak._ Sherlock sends that off and then leaps up from his bed, abandoning his mobile in favor of tracking down his laptop. He wants to see John5NF’s words larger, wants to be able to visualize their entire record of their volley of messages. 

It’s silly and he knows it’s silly, but it’s rather brilliant that he doesn’t _care_ that he’s acting silly. He’s the only one who knows about it, he’s the only one who can pass judgment on himself and Sherlock chooses--in this moment--not to. 

Once in the sitting room Redbeard makes an appearance, shuffling out from under the desk to say hello. Sherlock pets him twice as he stoops to grab his laptop and the he tucks it under his arm and returns to his bedroom in order to get himself situated in his bed once more; it’s only a moment before Redbeard joins him, circling the bed once before plopping himself down at Sherlock’s feet. “We’ll go for a walk in a bit, alright?” 

_I hope you feel better for it, then. :)_

_Emoticons? Please refrain._ he types and then adds a little _:-P_ before he can overthink it. _Stunningly, I do feel rather better for it, though I’m not sure exactly why._

_Ah right, you detest people. Maybe just chalk this up to personal growth?_

Sherlock scoffs aloud. _How preposterous._ And as he’s trying to decide how to continue with his reply, a small bit of text pops up on the left-hand side of his screen. _John5NF would like to be added to your contacts._

Sherlock gasps and Redbeard startles at it. He has two options, to click yes, or to click no. If he clicks no, John5NF might take that as a sign not to email him further. If he clicks yes, this will become even more personal, and Sherlock isn’t sure if he wants that. The pad of his middle finger drags the cursor back and forth across the screen as he stares at his options. 

_Yes_

or _No_. 

He’d only created this email address in order to interact with John5NF. He could delete this account right this second and not lose anything of absolute important. He could send Guest into the ether, leaving John5NF with no inbox to send further emails to. 

The thing is, he can’t imagine saying no. The idea sends a wave of panic through him; he wishes he could pick that apart, the panic when thinking about cutting off ties with someone who is only an internet acquaintance. He can’t explain it at all, but Sherlock admits to himself that he looks forward to John5NF’s emails, that he _wants_ them. That though they’ve only conversed online and only for a short time, that Sherlock feels some sort of undeniable pull towards him. 

He hesitates no longer. Sherlock clicks the ‘yes’ button resolutely. 

A moment later, a dialogue box pops up on the right hand side of the screen. 

_this might be presumptuous of me but I had a feeling you’d be online right now._

Sherlock’s breath halts in his chest as he stares at the open dialogue box. It feels as though his heart is in his throat as he types back. _Not presumptuous at all._

_Good,_ John says. _I think this is easier._

Oh, it’s easier, and that’s precisely the problem. This is all becoming more and more personal, more and more like actual interaction. This isn’t something he _does_. This shouldn’t be something he’s allowing himself to fall into. 

_How,_ Sherlock types, _was your day?_

The dialogue box reads _John5NF is typing_ for a very long time. The message disappears and reappears several times before his message appears. _That doesn’t seem like a question that someone who doesn’t like people would ask._

_I like you,_ Sherlock immediately types and sends. It doesn’t shock him that he’s sent it, because it is the absolute truth. 

__\---_ _

Sherlock stays up very late, talking with John5NF about nothing, really. He asks him medical questions just to test his knowledge, finds out that he likes Bond films and hates chickpeas and Sherlock tells him the history of Redbeard. 

It is distinctly pleasant and friendly and Sherlock sleeps well for the four hours he manages. He wakes and feels cheerful but exhausted, and he only manages a short walk with Redbeard before returning to the flat to begin his day.

He drags himself outside and hails a cab, wanting to head downtown and speak with his network before badgering Molly and Lestrade again. He pops out at St. Paul’s and sets his sights on the nearest coffee shop. 

It’s one of his usual places, and this particular Costa makes--in Sherlock’s estimation--the best espresso of the lot. He makes his way through the early morning stragglers, standing about with their beverages and saunters up and into the queue. 

It’s a moment before he notices it, but when he looks at the back of the head in front of him, the set of the shoulders, the tilt of the hips. Of course he would run into John Watson here, of course he would. He’s not prepared to sham at charming, he hasn’t even had his first coffee of the day! 

Sherlock frowns, wonders what the etiquette is for a situation such as this. Should he get John’s attention? He doesn’t have to think on it further, as John glances down at either of his pockets and shuffles on his feet. 

“Bollocks,” John swears beneath his breath and pats his pockets for good measure. “I seem to have… I don’t have any cash on me. Oh, forget it, I’m sorry I-” 

“Is the system down again, Sylvia?” There’s a smile in his voice as Sherlock asks the question, as John visibly tenses as he hears Sherlock speak and peeks around to confirm that it is indeed Sherlock Holmes behind him. 

The woman at the register sighs, though her cheeks color a bit. She’s always been a bit enamored with him, even if she tries to hide it with her twenty-something nonchalance. “Yep, again. We’re only doing cash orders,” she directs to Sherlock and then turns her attention back to John. “I’m really sorry, sir.” 

“Here,” Sherlock says without preamble and thrusts out a twenty pound note, his elbow just brushing John’s shoulder. 

It’s a moment before John moves, but when he does it’s with such a flurry that Sherlock nearly has to take a step back to avoid being checked by his body. “Nope. No, you don’t have to do that.” 

“I’m aware,” Sherlock says in return. “I want to.” 

John’s eyes narrow suspiciously at him and he crosses his arms over his chest, a stance that Sherlock almost smiles outwardly at, so standoffish. “Why?” 

Sherlock smiles--a fake thing--at the cashier and then glances back at John. “Why not?” 

“Why are you buying me coffee?” John lets that hang in the air between them for a moment. “Again.” 

“You can pay me back if it’s such strange behavior,” Sherlock shrugs, noting how John’s nostrils flare. It’s such a minute movement but Sherlock catches it and feels a thrill of _something_ run through him. John Watson isn’t altogether unattractive; he’s a bit plain, if Sherlock had to put a word to it, but he has very intense, expressive eyes, and carries himself very well, carries himself confidently and assuredly. His hair is a rather nice shade, and if it wasn’t for the frankly hideous jumpers that he seems to be so fond of wearing, Sherlock might even have the benefit of being able to appraise what seems to be his very fit body. 

Well. 

Wasn’t that a turn up. From nostril flare to admittance of attraction in under three seconds, if Sherlock had to quantify it. How positively- 

“Aren’t you getting anything?” John’s voice cuts through his inner monologue and Sherlock’s eyes flick to each of the baristas. 

“They know my order.” 

John’s face morphs into dull disbelief and then he barks out a laugh, turns to look at the baristas himself. “Of course they do, they’d have to.” 

“Excuse me?” Sherlock can’t help the indignance in his voice and the frost in his gaze. 

John’s grin has an edge to it, and Sherlock glares at him until he spits it out. “You’re such a poncy git. They’d _have_ to know whatever half-caf, double whip, soy whatever that you order, wouldn’t they?” 

It’s at that very moment that the barista calls out, “Venti black coffee for Sherlock!” 

“Perhaps not as poncy as you hoped.” He ducks his head in parting and goes to snag his beverage from the counter. 

When he turns, John is behind him. “Wait, wait, I… I’m.” John frowns, rolls his eyes and blows out a breath. “I’m sorry. I think we… no, we definitely got off on the wrong foot.” 

Sherlock’s mouth twists as he picks up the to-go cup and pops off the lid, testing the temperature, dumping two sugar packets in and stirring. “Did we?” 

“You know we did,” John grumbles in return. “If we’re going to be working alongside one another I’d rather we try and be civil, so…” John sucks in a breath, his chest puffing out. “Thank you for the coffee the other day. And today actually. I’ll get you back.” 

Sherlock sizes him up, makes a show of giving John the once-over. “Civil,” he tests. “Alright.” 

“Yeah,” John replies. “Good. And uh, you take your coffee black with two sugars? Just for, you know, future reference.” 

Sherlock glances down from the cup to John, and smiles. “I do.” He ducks his head, takes a hearty swig of his coffee and nods at John as he maneuvers around him, towards the door. “Good day,” he says, and he grins as he _swears_ he feels John’s eyes follow him out. 


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock spends the next few days casually chatting with John5NF, learning silly, innocuous, truly meaningless things about him. They share their thoughts about London, about the improvements on the Tube, about the new exhibition at the Portrait Gallery. He learns John’s London and John learns his.

It’s remarkable, to think he knows a city so well, and then to see it through another’s eyes. 

They write nearly every day until Sherlock gets wrapped up in a nine of a case, winds up catching a murderer just south of Croydon and then sleeps at a hotel there for an entire day before making it back to Baker Street. 

Redbeard is more than thrilled to see him, as is the frazzled dog-walker, to whom he pays an exorbitant fee.

They spend their first evening reunited on the sitting room floor, Sherlock apologizing for his absence in profuse belly rubs and rawhide treats. By the time evening rolls around, Sherlock has taken Redbeard for two walks and one two mile run on which he encountered five individual women and one man who tried to pick him up by engaging him in conversation about Redbeard, and is entirely done with human interaction for the day.

He feels raw and strung out, overstimulated and somehow empty. It’s the come-down after the end of a case, and frankly, he’s shit at handling it. In days of old he would have injected some of his seven percent solution, but he now instead indulges in sickeningly sweet bakery treats. He buys an eclair, a frighteningly large piece of lemon cheesecake, and two dozen assorted cookies, intending to gorge on the lot.

Before he has the opportunity to pry open the simple white bakery box, he remembers. Something John5NF had said when they were discussing their favorite places to eat in London. _Do you bother limiting your sodium, or are you looking forward to dealing with heart troubles later in life?_

_It’s not_ all _sodium! Chinese food is a perfectly acceptable form of sustenance_ Sherlock had responded, feeling as though he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, putting down the mobile phone on which was displayed the delivery number of his favorite Thai place. _Why does it matter?_

_It’d be a shame to have to find someone_ else _to chat to! :D_

And so Sherlock grumbles to himself and constructs a basic salad with spinach pilfered from his landlady, chopping up a carrot that had surely seen better days to add some color to the proceedings. He eats it all and then gobbles down the eclair with a bit less guilt. 

But why is he feeling guilt at all? The thought stops him in his tracks. 

It’s so odd, taking someone’s opinion and rationale into account alongside his own. He hasn’t done anything like that since he was in primary school and that makes the fact that he’s considering someone else _now_ all the more strange. 

Two weeks of chatting with John5NF and he still feels like he wants to learn more, still feels like he wants to tell him more. Sherlock takes a shower and brushes out Redbeard’s coat and recalibrates both of his microscopes before he deigns to pick up his mobile again. When he does, he’s rewarded with a new email from John5NF, and not one in the string that they’d been sending back and forth. Those emails remain, read, in light gray print below this one.

In bright, bold white letters the subject reads, _**Spring**_.

_Back in town yet? It’s gorgeous here. I love London in spring time, don’t you? The smell of wet leaves and the sight of fresh grass peeking up from freshly tilled soil? It’s the parks in springtime, I think, that I miss most when I’m not in London. Reminds me of planting our annual garden with my mother. Always miss my mum in April, is that strange? Ah well, I guess that’s me being sentimental. Mum would always sort me out when I was in a rough spot, but then, that’s what mothers are supposed to do, I suppose._

It’s a very, very introspective message that John5NF has sent, and it sends something like a ripple of mirth down Sherlock’s spine. The way John5NF speaks about London reminds him of how he feels about the city; not in springtime, and not so soft and romantic, but Sherlock loves London all the same. It’s touching, in a way, knowing that someone else, someone he’s become so fond of, is also so fond of a place that he is.

It’s… 

Warming.

Sherlock’s mouth tips in an affectionate half smile, as he rereads the email, wonders not just what John5NF is like, but what his mother is like. His thoughts turn to his own mother, and he feels a stab of guilt at having not called her in nearly a month. He should get to that, he thinks, as he opens a new message box to compose a reply.

_John, may I call you John? I find myself enamoured of the city all year. What I mean to say, it’s difficult to recall a time when I’m not completely enthralled by it. It’s quite a unique place, I think, and I can’t imagine ever living anywhere else. You wrote that your mother would sort you out when you were in a rough spot; are you recalling her nature now because you’re currently in a rough spot? Is there any way-_

Sherlock stops pecking out the letters, the rational side of his brain once again roaring to life and making its objections known. It’s a different roar than before, however, before he began emailing with John5NF; the voice in his head doesn’t have the same bite to it. Sherlock realizes, belatedly, that this whole thing–share intimacy with a stranger via the internet–is just becoming another facet of his day.

It’s no longer all that odd.

It’s… nice.

Very nice.

_that I can be of any assistance?_ Sherlock finishes and taps his thumb over the “send” button without the slightest hesitation.

Is this what it’s like to have a friend, he wonders. It’s been so long since Sherlock referred to anyone–even privately, to himself–as a friend, that he spends a few moments parsing out exactly what this is. It could be friendship, he supposes; he’s never been in any sort of online exchange like this before, so he’s not really sure. 

Sherlock is busy reclining on the sofa and wondering what he’d like John5NF to think of _him_ as when his mobile pings. 

_Yeah, John is fine for now. And it’s nothing major it’s just London. No, that’s not right. It’s hard to tell you what’s wrong without giving away more than would be smart. I used to be part of something, something larger. And I had people around, all of the time. People relying on me, people I had to rely on. It was a cohesive place, stupid to say it was somewehwe where I belonged but it was. It’s hard being without a place like that if you’d had it for so long, if it’s the only place you really knew yourself. I miss it.”_

Sherlock sighs, leans back into the sofa and reads over John5NF’s–John’s, Sherlock mentally corrects–email. He has absolutely no idea what John must feel like; he’s never been part of a cohesive group before. The closest he came was perhaps when he was away at school, forced into moments of institutionalized camaraderie with the other chaps in his class. The sporadic meetings hadn’t taken and Sherlock had been left blissfully to his own devices. 

He’s at a loss for what to say, but finds it quite the new experience in _wishing_ he knew what to say. For a while he gazes at Redbeard, who is seated by the fire, gnawing contentedly at a beat up chew toy. He envies the dog, never having to suss out situations such as these. And even this, such a simple thing, seems to be completely beyond Sherlock. His thumbs tap aimlessly at the sides of his mobile for a bit before he sighs, and hits ‘Reply.’ 

_I don’t know what that is like,_ Sherlock begins and then worries his teeth over his lower lip. _I myself have never been one for camaraderie, but I can understand that being out of your comfort zone, or a place that you found yourself to belong and feeling unmoored. I know of no advice to alleviate that feeling, though I imagine it’s fairly difficult to deal with._ There, he sends that, not feeling good about it, save for the fact that at least it’s the truth. 

John’s response comes quickly. _Thank you for not just reponding with the stock “I know how you feel” bs. :D_

A furrow forms between Sherlock’s eyes as he tries to devise what John means. It’s only a short while of puzzling before he snatches up his laptop and opens a chat window. _What do you mean by that?_

There is no immediate response and so Sherlock decides to unpack his things from the case and does a cursory tidy of the flat. The last time he’d left the place a disaster Redbeard had gotten a hold of a very rare academic tome that Sherlock had been perusing and had ruined it entirely. By the time he returns, John has only just responded. _The “I know how you feel” thing?_

He abandons his phone and snatches up his laptop, logging on quickly and instead of responding to the email, opens a new chat box. 

_Yes,_ Sherlock pecks quickly out. _That._

Sherlock looms above his computer, staring at the screen until the ellipsis of John typing yields a response. _Just that some people will tell you what they think you want to hear or telly ou a stock answer that they think they’re supposed to say._

John follows up a moment later with, _And honestly that crap doesn’t help._

Sherlock stands, blinks at the wall, then at the window and then down at his dog who makes the dog equivalent of a shrug and then returns to nosing a his toy. Sherlock rereads John’s words twice more, finally coming to the very strange conclusion that his not understanding the situation, not understand _what humans do_ had worked in his favor. 

_Ah_ , is all that Sherlock can think to respond with, which displeases him greatly and sends him, frowning, to sit in his chair, his laptop perched on his knees. 

_Just, it’s nice when people listen and respond and just don’t tell you meaningless shit because it’s what_ they _think that you need to hear. So thanks for listening._

As soon as the message appear on his screen, it is followed by, _Reading? Thanks for listening or reading or whatever it is we’ve been doing. It’s hard sometimes, is all I’m saying I guess. I don’t know why I’m telling you about this but yeah thanks._

_I didn’t say that intending to help_ he wants to type. _I didn’t think I was helping at all_ , his fingers itch to write, because otherwise he feels like he’s somehow lying to John. Does John think Sherlock knows how to respond to situations like that? Does John think that Sherlock could suss that out on his own as being what John logically wanted to hear?

That he’s _good_ at any of this? Sherlock is deficient and defunct, so outside of the realm of normal that not pointing this out to John feels like lying. 

And why, he wonders, does the prospect of lying to anonymous, Internet John make him feel so terrible? 

_There was nothing else to say_ , Sherlock finally sends off and finds that it’s enough, it puts him back on an even keel. 

Writing with John has brought him so remarkably out of his comfort zone while simultaneously making him… happy. 

A faceless stranger on the internet has done what so many people before have failed at. 

Sherlock wonders at it, while also getting tripped up by the reasoning behind it. _Why_ is John making him happy. Why is the simple act of chatting to another person bringing him such immense… contentment? Why is John confiding in him? Is John as deficient as he is? What is it about John that makes him so accessible? What is it about John that makes Sherlock _want_ to correspond with him, look forward to speaking with him? 

_Why are you talking to me?_ Sherlock sends before he even has time to think about what he’s written. There’s an instant pang of regret because, well, it’s generally difficult to convey tone via text and Sherlock’s statement certainly reads as accusatory. 

But John surprises him, yet again. _Why not? I like it_

Sherlock smiles. _I like it, too._

____________________________________________ _

Sherlock doesn’t sleep that evening, instead remaining awake to check on various bacterias and their growth. He needs to check them hourly, so in the meantime he composes. In the morning, after a brief and fruitless shouting session with Lestrade, he realizes that he hasn’t been to Barts in some time, and suits up for the jaunt across town. 

He doesn’t bother with the Tube; it’s an impossibly nice day and Sherlock finds himself buoyed by John’s description of the city in Spring. And so, with hands in his pockets he begins the three mile trek across London, stopping briefly along the way to speak with his contacts here and there. It takes him two hours and seventy-five quid parsed out amongst his network, but he feels refreshed, not at all annoyed when he’s actually stopped at the reception desk and asked for identification. 

By the time he makes it down to sub basement B, it’s nearing noon. Still, he’s unprepared for John Watson pushing his way through the door, shrugging on his coat. 

John pulls up short, hands pausing in adjustment of his lapel. “Oh, uh, hello.” 

Sherlock blinks down at John briefly before returning, “Hello.” 

“Yeah, heh, Molly isn’t in, she’s out to lunch, won’t be back for another forty minutes,” John checks his watch. “I’m guessing.” He finishes smoothing down the canvas of his jacket and lets his hands fall to his sides, fingers curved slightly into a ball. 

Sherlock’s eyes narrow as he sizes John up; when he opens his mouth to make a slightly-less-scathing-than-usual deduction, John is already speaking. “Right. Anyway, I’m headed to lunch if you wanted to…” John gestures with his thumb towards the elevator. 

That trips Sherlock up and his mouth falls closed instantly. “Wanted?” Sherlock tests. “To?” 

“Come with me,” John says simply, slowly, like he knows Sherlock isn’t going to get it. To John’s credit, Sherlock really isn’t understanding it at all. “To lunch.” 

“Why?” 

John smiles, looks at the wall just over Sherlock’s shoulder and licks his lips. “Because it’s lunch time? And I can get you back for the coffee.” John waits patiently before Sherlock, never taking his eyes off of Sherlock’s face. 

“You’re going to take me to lunch.” 

“Would do if you would stop repeating what I’m saying and, you know, go to lunch. I’m starving.” John gives Sherlock a half smile and checks his pocket for his wallet. Sherlock’s gaze follows John’s hand to his trousers. 

High-quality, not designer but pressed this morning. John looks good, well put together. It’s… distracting. Sherlock’s gaze darts up to meet John’s eyes; he’s been staring too long. 

Sherlock clears his throat and makes his observations. “You got in early today. Only time for a banana before things got busy,” he surmises, voice a bit far away, his eyes lingering on John’s shoulder. 

“Yeah, that’s right, yeah.” 

“You don’t usually go out to lunch, usually bring your own food from home, saves money. But you want to go to lunch today…” Sherlock’s eyes narrow. 

“Well, it’s nice out. Could do with some nice, spring sunshine, yeah?” Sherlock watches as John shoves his hands into his pockets, his chest expanding just so. Sherlock notes the plane of John’s chest, stretching beneath the fine checked pattern of his shirt, notes the length of his nose and the way his hair sits. 

___Interesting_._ _

“Sushi,” Sherlock decides and turns on his heel, knowing full well that a lunch of sushi more than overshadows coffee, but Sherlock finds himself wanting to owe John Watson one. 

And John doesn’t even put up a fight, just enters the lift and stabs the button for the main floor and says, “There’s a place two blocks away that I’ve heard good things about. Think they have outdoor seating, too.” 

“Yoki,” Sherlock says, clasping his hands behind his back. He knows it well, it was one of the recommendations he’d given to John5NF. He wonders if John5NF has tried it yet, wonders if he has tried it if he’s been there recently. Will he and John Watson be seated in the same place that John5NF sat? 

_God_ , Sherlock mentally rebukes himself. He needs to stop imagining such absolutely trite things. He clears his throat. “Yes, it’s quite good. Their spicy tuna roll is unparalleled.” 

John turns to look at him fully, brows raised in surprise. “Sushi fan, then?” 

“No more so than a fan of any other food, but I do appreciate it when done properly.” The lift pings and they step out into the bustle of one of the many reception areas, dodging patients and staff as they make their way to the door. 

“Right,” John says when they’re on the pavement. “Lead on.” 

And so Sherlock does, with John by his side. He notes John’s height and the length of his stride, how he swings his arms alongside him as he walks. John is confident and deft, stepping around passersby with ease. John is compact and strong, and Sherlock surreptitiously appreciates the expediency of John’s gait. 

For a moment he allows himself to imagine John Watson as a medic on the battlefield, calm and sure; it’s a surprisingly appealing image. 

It’s a short walk during which they remain silent, John just a half a pace behind Sherlock. While they walk, Sherlock deduces, stupid, innocuous things. John’s preference for sturdy, well-made clothing in boring colors, the gambling problem he had in his late–no! early!–twenties, the fact that he sleeps on his back most nights and that he- 

Sherlock blinks at the next deduction that flits through his mind. Nearly stumbles at the abrupt truth of it. 

John Watson dresses to the left. 

Upon properly pondering that thought, Sherlock clears his throat, shakes his head just so and _really_ looks down at John. Lips pursed, he allows himself to note that John is _not_ entirely unpleasant to look at, and he seems very competent. An ex-army surgeon, capable foil to Molly in the morgue, who isn’t as stupid as most people are and more bizarrely... isn’t afraid of Sherlock. 

How very, very perplexing. 

How _interesting_. 

A feeling prickles the hair on the back of his neck, something that rankles him. Sherlock feels as though he’s missing something, but he can’t quite determine what that something is. A deduction struggles to form completely in the halls of his mind, but it’s not quite fully developed yet. 

Sherlock tilts his head to the left, to the right, getting anxious over what he’s missing. 

And what he’s managed to deduce. The seemingly innocuous things that Sherlock has picked up on, that his mind has deemed important enough to draw his attention to. 

Sherlock is still ruminating over the knowledge that _John Watson dresses to the left_ when they reach the restaurant. John’s already weaving through the plentiful outdoor seating and finding a table towards the back of the patio. “This okay?” 

“It’s fine,” Sherlock says, and his voice sounds–even to himself–a million miles away. 

They still don’t speak as they review the menus and Sherlock keeps glancing up at John. This man is so _plain_ , and yet so fascinating; it’s a bit disconcerting, if Sherlock is being honest with himself. And how exciting! Is John perhaps a true wolf in sheep’s clothing? 

If he were alone as he thinks this, Sherlock would physically bat the tedious idiom away, but he restrains himself. Instead, he dips his head towards the menu and pretends to read as his mind whispers to him again, the unformed deduction vying for his focus. 

Sherlock’s eyes flit up, fix on John’s face, his mouth and eyes, as he primes his mind and _observes_. He’s missing something, but _what_? What isn’t he seeing about John Watson? 

Eventually, John puts his menu down and folds his hands atop the table, the perforated surface leaving little diamonds embellished into his skin. Sherlock looks at those, too. John’s hands, the blunt fingers and the neatly-trimmed nails, the way his knuckles press into one another. Then John’s wholly unremarkable wrists; Sherlock’s eyes travel up the length of gingham shirt, linger on John’s shoulders–strong, wide, but not garishly so–the curve of his neck, the tiniest bit of stubble coloring his jaw. 

Sherlock’s gaze remains fixed there, on the bit of flesh where the left side of John’s jaw meets his neck. 

It’s another moment or two before the silence is broken, John’s voice cutting cleanly through Sherlock’s reverie. The words hold a lightness, something like amusement, but there’s no mistaking them for anything other than John calling him out for his behavior. “Is there something on my face?” 

Sherlock’s gaze snaps from where it had settled to meet John’s gaze. “What?” 

John’s tongue makes and appearance, touching his lower lip. “Why are you staring at me?” 

“I’m not,” Sherlock says, an edge to his voice. 

“Right,” John raises a brow and then shakes his head, an amused half-smile playing on his lips; he’s not buying it, but the staring doesn’t seem to have unsettled him. “You’re an odd one, aren’t you?” 

Sherlock, rather than being taken aback by that, considers. He is odd, that’s true enough. What good would denying that do? And yet, John remains sitting across from him, smiling, apparently waiting for a response. The fact that he’s odd isn’t putting John off at all, it appears. 

_But why?_

_Fascinating._

“Problem?” 

John huffs a little chuckle through his nose. “No, it’s all fine,” he replies and gestures with his chin towards a waitress who is rolling cutlery into napkins by the bar. “I like it.” 

Sherlock narrows his gaze and feels that prickle again and realizes belatedly that he doesn’t feel at all put out to be at lunch with John rather than procuring body parts from Molly. 


	8. Chapter 8

John surprises himself by inviting Sherlock out to lunch, but then, there’s something about Sherlock that makes him want to learn more. It’s not a siren’s pull exactly, but he’s so _odd_ and so _sharp_ that John wants to see if Sherlock can continue to take him by surprise, because wouldn’t that be something?

“Haven’t had sushi in a bit, so…” John trails off, flicking his menu down, with a lick of his lips.

“So?” Sherlock asks in return, one amusingly-thick eyebrow perked. They look at one another for a beat, sizing each other up. There’s a stalemate there, when Sherlock’s gaze flickers away, back at his menu. 

John chuckles and folds his hands atop the table. “I’m likely going to order a bit more than lunch would really call for, just as a warning.”

Sherlock peaks his other eyebrow and then he smiles slightly, “No need to explain yourself.”

“Yeah, but wanted to put that out there before you made your… deductions about me.”

“Does that frighten you?” Sherlock asks, the curiosity in his voice bleeding through the assured tone. “My deductions?”

John regards Sherlock, takes in his demeanor, makes his own, simpler deductions. Sherlock isn’t put out by being here, of that John is entirely sure. Perhaps he is as intrigued about John and John is by him, and wouldn’t _that_ be something? “Why,” John pauses, his tongue passing over his lips as he tamps down the urge to cross his arms over his chest in a display of confrontation. “In the _world_ would you think that? That I would be frightened of you?”

“Most people are.” Sherlock’s gaze hold his and for a moment they’re in impasse, but then John laughs, tips his head back and barks out a single, incredulous guffaw. Sherlock doesn’t react, just tilts his head and watches. 

“Well, I’m… not. I’ve met far worse.” John settles for saying, purses his lips and leans back, perfectly at ease. “That is something, though. With the deductions. Extraordinary.”

Sherlock smiles at him then, the stiffness leaving his body as he leans back in his seat, draping his arm across the back of the chair of which he’s abreast. “That’s not what people normally say.”

“And what do they usually say?”

“Piss off.”

John’s body shakes with a silent laugh and he shrugs a bit. “To be fair, I did nearly tell you to piss off the first go round.”

“You still can,” Sherlock adds, a teasing little smile touching the corner of his mouth. 

“What’s say we get through lunch and see where we are?” Just then the waitress comes and John places his order, three rolls and a bit of edamame, something he can’t help ordering when it’s on the menu.

Sherlock orders two rolls of his own, and then hands both of the menus back to the waitress without looking. They don’t speak for a moment, both content to watch the passersby. After a time John slides back in his seat, hands on the table and assesses Sherlock.

“So, how do you know Molly?” he asks, taking a sip of his water, just to have something to do. 

Sherlock blinks at him, fingers mapping across the condensation on his own glass. “Is this the part where we get to know one another?”

“It is that part, yeah,” John says dryly, managing to refrain from rolling his eyes. 

Sherlock sighs and mimics John’s more relaxed pose. “She and I met through a colleague. There was some… business with a man who was garrotting women and I was asked to assist on the matter. That’s how we met. I must admit, I was rather… younger, then. As was she. She’s… useful. Helpful when she needs to be.”

“So you’ve known her for a while,” John translates, slowly, deciphering Sherlock’s hastily-delivered string of words. 

Sherlock toggles his head this way and that in answer and turns his attention back to the street; John watches him curiously. He’s incredibly observant, John can tell by simply looking at him, and he knows how to have a conversation, even if he doesn’t seem to enjoy it. He can fully understand why some people might think Sherlock a dick but John–for some inexplicable reason–wants to know more about him. About why Sherlock is the way he is.

 _Steady on, Watson_ , his mind provides. _Might be more trouble than it’s worth._ His mouth turns down at the thought and he takes another drink of water before regaining Sherlock’s attention.

“I’m shit at talking to people, too,” he provides, leaving the sentence hanging, saying nothing more in the hopes that Sherlock will pick up on the thread of conversation. When his cool blue eyes flash back to meet John’s gaze, he feels momentarily as though someone has shoved him quite hard in the sternum.

What positively _expressive_ eyes.

“No you’re not, I…” Sherlock places his palms flat on the table. “I’ve known Molly for six years. She’s smarter than she lets on, it’s quite a skill to have, I appreciate it. I’m aware that she may have a fondness for me, though that’s not really my area.” Sherlock says everything in a rush and John finds that he’s a bit stunned by the amount of information he’s been given.

He can’t decide if he’s going to forge ahead with the thought that momentarily flits through his brain, but then his mouth is opening and he’s speaking. “Not your area so… you’ve not got a girlfriend?”

There’s almost a smile in his voice, John swears he hears it when Sherlock hums, “Mmmm, no.”

“Boyfriend, then?” It’s going out on a limb, it’s fishing and he knows it, but there’s no taking it back now. He’s fishing because he’s interested–who wouldn’t be interested in someone who looks and sounds like _that_ –and if he’s baiting a man who’s proven himself to be _this_ observant, he may have well shown his hand. 

Fuck it. John swallows and holds Sherlock’s gaze without faltering.

Sherlock narrows his eyes then, blinks and John can see the cogs turning in his head. Before Sherlock can even open his mouth John is shaking his head, a soft smile touching his lips. “Didn’t mean it like that, just meant…”

“You’re looking for a tactful way to discern whether I prefer men over women.” Comes Sherlock’s bold statement, and when it hits John’s ears, he realizes how ludicrous it sounds.

John shrugs, “Well, when you put it like that it sounds really inappropriate. Yeah, sorry.”

“It is inappropriate, yes,” Sherlock pauses, glances away and then back. John feels oddly like he wants to point out that it’s a bit pot calling the kettle black, saying that John is being inappropriate. “But it is nonetheless true,” he says, spine straightening in a manner that John catches it immediately and feels the need to assuage whatever thoughts are running through Sherlock’s head.

John ensures that his expression is schooled into an incredibly neutral mask when he says, “It’s all fine.”

“I know it is,” Sherlock says, gentler than before, a tiny smile playing on his lips. 

“Anyway,” John says, about to turn the conversation to safer topics, when the waitress comes with the edamame. “Feel free,” John says, gesturing at the bowl and then pops a pod into his mouth, sucking out the soybeans inside. He watches as Sherlock reaches forth and does the same, plump lips wrapping around a-

 _Plump lips?_ His mind screeches to a halt and John laughs at himself internally. Of course he’d choose this moment to let his defenses down so his libido would make itself known. Not that he hadn’t thought Sherlock handsome before, he just hadn’t thought of Sherlock’s mouth doing anything particularly lewd until now. And with his recent admission…

Well, John decides he’s allowed to indulge a little. It’s been _ages_ since he’s been with _anyone_ and he supposes he’s a little starved for it. 

They fall into a surprisingly companionable silence, just finishing off the bowl before their entrees arrive. Sherlock adds so much wasabi to his soy sauce that John comments on it and Sherlock sends him a scathing glare and a “Can’t stand the heat?” before plucking up a tempura eel roll and bringing it quickly to his mouth. 

Once John has his soy sauce set, he delves back into conversation. “So you’re a detective?”

“Consulting detective,” Sherlock corrects, poking at his ginger. “Only one in the world. When the police are out of their depth–which is always–they come to me.”

“Sounds,” John chews while he searches for a word. “Exciting.”

“That depends entirely on the case,” Sherlock replies, dragging a roll through his sauce before turning it over and letting the other side soak up the sodium. 

“Tell me about your best one, then.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow delightfully. “What constitutes best?”

“Your favorite,” John suggests.

Sherlock considers for a moment, tapping his chopsticks against his plate. “That garrotting I was telling you about. I placed the murderer by accurately comparing the strangulation marks on the victims by infiltrating a coffee shop in the area and using invisible dye to mark cups. From there I measured the grip range, and worked off of a fairly well-done psychological profile, looked to the regulars who frequented the shop and found the suspect.” Sherlock says it like it’s nothing, like it the most common solution in the world, but the genius of it stops John’s chewing.

It sounds like something out of a spy movie. “And how long did that take you?” John asks, leaning forward with interest.

“A week,” he says simply. “Billy Kincaid,” Sherlock adds, and John could swear he hears something he would call wistful in his voice.

He thinks on that for a moment, how Sherlock came to identify a murderer, and the _name_ of the murderer and it clicks with him. He can’t help but sound impressed when he speaks again. “The Camden Garrotter, you mean?”

Sherlock’s brows jump at that, and his eyes take on a new sparkle. It’s… quite something. “Yes, you know him?”

John laughs, taken aback by surprise. “That was all over the papers, even internationally. And you caught him. That’s brilliant!”

“Yes, well, it was a mere matter of observation. He found himself in a pattern, and when a pattern becomes discernable to others, well…”

“Fantastic!” John explained, placing his chopsticks down on his plate.

Sherlock places his own chopsticks down and blots daintily at his lips. When he pulls away, he assesses John for a long moment, during which John feel as though he’s being stealthily stripped apart. It’s unsettling but not entirely unpleasant. He finds that he wants to know what _else_ Sherlock can see about him, about anyone. 

“Do you know you do that out loud?”

“Sorry.” John feels the blush threatening to creep up his face and grabs his icy glass in order to stave it off. 

“No, it’s…” Carefully, Sherlock rests his napkin back in his lap, takes up his chopsticks once more and snatches up another piece of maki. “Fine.”

Sherlock’s tone, his admission that John’s compliment was _good_ sends a warm thrill racing through him. It feels almost like… flirting. It feels like what he’s been doing with Guest but so much more _real_. “Right, okay,” John forges on, clearing his throat, “Second best case, then.”

Sherlock’s right cheek jumps briefly in something John would guess might be a smirk. “I’ve not ranked them.”

“Oh, piss off,” John says, gives Sherlock a faux-severe look and laughs, and it feels so natural, so nice and easy to be talking with Sherlock like this, that he nearly forgets that they’d been shouting at one another just a few days ago. “Yes you have.”

“Have I?” Sherlock asks, voice slippery as he glances up at John from beneath his lashes. It feels like a test, now; will John back down from his good-natured accusation, or will he follow through. 

“Please, you’re so haughty and rude and… and… superior, you’ve ranked your cases.” His voice doesn’t waver– _Why should it? You’re not_ frightened _of him_ –and he’s sure to hold eye contact with Sherlock as he speaks. He feels somehow powerful; he thinks that it’s unlikely that many people have challenged Sherlock Holmes and he _likes_ that maybe he’s one who does. 

Sherlock holds his gaze for a moment and then sits up straight, “Alright, I have.”

“Knew it,” John returns in triumph. “Tell me.”

“You want to hear about them?”

“Of course I do!”

“That’s-” Sherlock is interrupted by the chirping of his mobile and manages a slight downturn of his mouth as he extracts it from his pocket. He spends a second or two scanning the screen and then pulls his wallet from his coat and tosses down a one-hundred quid note. 

Sherlock Holmes _would_ be the sort of bloke that just carries around one-hundred quid notes with him. 

“Hey, I said I would-” John begins as Sherlock stands and John has to stop himself from reaching across the table to grab Sherlock’s arm, make him stay.

“Have to dash, suspicious death in a flat in Brixton, Lauriston Gardens. Spectacular sushi, really good, I’ll…” And with that, Sherlock is whirling into his coat and patting himself down to make sure he has everything. He takes one last look at John and then pulls on his scarf, even though it’s a nice, spring day out and hastily leaves the patio.

John is left sitting with his mouth agape, staring at Sherlock’s retreating figure, wondering whether to be put out or impressed that Sherlock paid not just for his meal but for the entire tab. Just as he’s sure he’s rather put out, Sherlock doubles back, walks up to the table and stares down at John.

“You’re a doctor. In fact, you’re an army doctor.”

“Yes,” he responds easily enough, wondering where this is going, though feeling an excited thrill run down his spine at the passion in Sherlock’s voice. 

“Any good?”

John wipes at his mouth, smiles, placatingly, serves Sherlock with a very adamant look. “Very good.”

Sherlock smiles at that, he lights right up. “Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths.”

“Well,” John begins, doesn’t quite know how to answer that, so settles on, “Yes.”

“Bit of trouble, too,” Sherlock comes off nonchalant, his mouth set in a thin line. John can already feel the buzzing in his bones, the urge to get up and _go_ , get into whatever Sherlock is suggesting. “I bet.”

He swallows, prepares himself, reaches over to grab at his cane, like he already knows how Sherlock is going to respond. “Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime… far too much.”

Sherlock meets John’s gaze and the challenge there is heady. “Want to see some more?”

John is up and out of his seat in an instant. “Oh god, yes.”

Before he knows it he’s rushing to keep up with this insane arsehole of a man, following him into the back of a cab and just like that, they’re off to Brixton. 

\---

John returns home, out of breath and giddy on adrenaline. He falls against the door to his flat once it’s closed and finds that he’s giggling under his breath. Being in Sherlock’s presence, watching him work, being able to lend his opinion on what happened to the body had been… invigorating. 

True, Sherlock had left him alone at the scene, but he’d seen himself home, splurged on a cab, and found himself wondering when he’d be able to see Sherlock again, if Sherlock would let him “assist” him again. John Watson is no one’s assistant, but perhaps a trusted colleague, someone who can lend a necessary, medical hand… well...

John toes off his shoes and runs a hand through his hair, shucking his jacket as he makes his way across the room to get a glass of water in the kitchenette. He leans against the countertop and closes his eyes, hearing his heartbeat in his ears. For a time the only sound in the tiny flat is the dripping of the faucet and John’s own breath, until the chiming of his phone startles him. He’s across the room in an instant, fishing it out of his coat pocket. 

_You forgot this -SH_ , is the text from the unknown number, though the signature gives it away instantly; beneath the text is an image of his cane, leaning against the outer gate of the crime scene. He doesn’t wonder how Sherlock got his number, not after being regaled with talk of his skills, and it doesn’t really both John to begin with. What bothers John is how in the world he hadn’t noticed that he’d left his cane behind.

He feels himself flush hot and then cold and then, out of sheer disbelief, he glances around the flat to ensure that yes, he did indeed forget his cane back in Brixton. What in the world...

“Huh,” he says aloud, and then again, louder. “Huh.”

Then John is dissolving into laughter, shaking his head as he wraps his palm around the meat of his thigh and gives it a squeeze. “Huh.”

He doesn’t text Sherlock back, wouldn’t begin to know what to say, but he rereads the text one last time, smiles and places the mobile face-down on the desk as he slips into the chair. John feels…

 _High_ , he decides as he laces his fingers together and tents his palms outwards, cracking his knuckles. He truly hasn’t felt this good in what seems like a lifetime. Almost of their own volition, his fingers open up his email and without even bothering to check his new mail, he’s opening a compose box. 

_My day was incredible, I don’t know why I wanted to tell you that, but I did. It’s amazing what change can come in a day, isn’t it?_ John types it out, finger by finger, his stomach turning further and further in his body until it feels like it’s flipped clear over inside of him. He squints at the screen, frowns, shrugs, frowns _again_ , laughs out loud at the buoyancy he’s feeling and then send the email to Guest. 

Sighing and sitting back, John finds that he can’t stop smiling and decides to begin searching the internet to find some new curtains for his flat. He’s got a solid income now, and if he’s going to be here for awhile, there’s no reason he can’t make it homey.

He manages to check two websites before his curiosity gets the best of him and he finds himself navigating back to his email. There, in stark white letters he’s come to love, is a reply from Guest. John clicks without a second thought.

_John, I’m glad to hear you had an incredible day. I too had a fairly decent afternoon, which turned into a very interesting evening. But to the point that I’ve been ruminating over for days. Do you think we should meet?_

“Meet? Oh my god,” John says aloud and slams his laptop shut, quickly, not wanting Guest to see that he’s online. 

Sitting back in his chair, John brings his thumbnail to his mouth and begins worrying over it with his teeth. He’s not terrified of meeting Guest, quite the opposite: he’s thrilled that Guest was the first one to suggest it. What he’s worried about, what he hadn’t even considered until this very moment… if what if Guest doesn’t like John Watson?

What if Guest wants the John of the emails?

What if–the horrifying thought strikes him–John Watson doesn’t measure up to the John that Guest has been getting to know?

 _Meet up_ , John thinks and swallows thickly, his good mood dissipating, uneasiness replacing it. John picks up his phone, thumbs it unlocked and stares at the message on his phone. He could just do _this_ , these online chats and emails, forever. Or, or… he could meet the person on the other end of the computer, he could meet the person that he’s been sharing aspects of his life with for these past weeks.

He could be pleasantly surprised.

Or he could be reading too much into this.

 _Enough of that, Watson_ , his inner voice provides. _Since when are you afraid of meeting new people?_ His fist curls against his thigh and his eyes slide closed for a moment. When he opens them, he hits ‘Reply’ and types, _Why not? Any idea when and where?_

Moments later, he had a reply. _Good. There’s a place on Baker Street, Speedy’s. Would Thursday at nine suit?_

John takes a deep breath, blows it out between his teeth. _Sounds good. How will I know it’s you?_

Again, it takes only moments for Guest to respond. _You’ll know._


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock wrings his hands as his brain runs into overdrive and then he breaks out into a delighted grin in the backseat of the taxi. He’s still high on endorphins, his body singing with the excitement of a new, _interesting_ case. He pays the cabbie very well and bounds out onto the pavement, takes the steps up to 221B two at a time.

He feels _boundless_ , he feels _unstoppable_ , he feels positively alive. Sherlock glances around the room, his eyes falling on his laptop and he slips into a seat at the table, coat still on, and boots the machine up. He begins a rudimentary search of the case, looking for any news articles that mention similar details. He logs into his email, prepared to send off a series of questions to D. I. Lestrade, when he notices a new, unread message from John5NF.

He clicks on it first, not bothering with the email to Scotland Yard. _My day was incredible, I don’t know why I wanted to tell you that, but I did. It’s amazing what change can come in a day, isn’t it?_

Sherlock smiles, feels his cheeks burn with the stretch of it, runs the pads of his fingers over the jutting of the keyboard and then pulls away; he brings his fingers to his mouth and decides whether or not to follow the insane idea that has popped into his head. But what does he have to lose, really? If John5NF turns out to be a goldfish like the rest of humanity, he hasn’t really invested anything in this, so he’ll lose nothing.

He hasn’t invested anything, has he?

_...have I?_

Sherlock ponders that; sometimes, John5NF’s emails are the only thing he looks forward to in his day, as completely insane as that is. If he keeps John5NF like this, on the internet, he won’t lose anything. Theoretically, he could continue corresponding with John for years and years, share the simple, online companionship with no risk. Or, he could meet this John5NF character and find out if he’s as interesting as he seems.

 _And if he is? Then what?_ his mind nags at him. Sherlock’s mind draws a blank, can’t think of how he would proceed if John5NF surprises him and turns out not to be… dull. Boring. _Normal_. But what then? _What then?_

Sherlock Holmes is not a coward; if anything, he should give John5NF the _privilege_ of meeting him. His ego reminds him how intelligent he is, how intuitive, how handsome, and it bolsters his intent, makes him hit ‘Reply’. 

Yes, yes indeed. John5NF should certainly have the privilege of meeting him. It would be irresponsible of Sherlock Holmes not to share his brilliance with him. Still, Sherlock bites his lip as he types, feels a flutter of _something_ in his stomach.

Apprehension and nerves coil in his gut, his massive ego unable to tame them. But Sherlock forges ahead, brings his fingers to the keyboard and begins typing. 

_John, I’m glad to hear you had an incredible day. I too had a fairly decent afternoon, which turned into a very interesting evening. But to the point that I’ve been ruminating over for days. Do you think we should meet?_ His hits the ‘Send’ button with an exaggerated stab of his finger on the track pad, and then he waits. 

A response comes a few minutes later, _Why not? Any idea when and where?_ Sherlock wonders for a moment, if John5NF has mulled over Sherlock’s proposition just as Sherlock had mulled over it himself. If John5NF is apprehensive, conjuring up images of Sherlock in his mind. He wonders, for the umpteenth time, what John5NF looks like and why in the world that would matter.

_But it does matter._

Sherlock’s chest feels like it’s fracturing open with something very close to excitement, something that takes over the sensation he was experiencing at having a new case on. It feels fantastic. But there’s also trepidation warring with the feeling; what an interesting juxtaposition.

 _Good._ he types. _There’s a place on Baker Street, Speedy’s. Would Thursday at nine suit?_

Sherlock drums his fingers against the laptop as he waits for a reply. _Sounds good. How will I know it’s you?_

That’s an interesting question and Sherlock mulls it over for the briefest of moments. White rose in his pocket? Wear a certain hat? Describe the coat he’ll be wearing? Sherlock scrunches up his face, thinks and thinks, turns his head and glances his reflection in the window. It only takes him a moment to remember how physically striking he is, and in a fit of confidence he types back, _You’ll know._

He sits back, feeling light but still dealing with shocks of anticipation in his belly; Sherlock contemplates tea, decides that would take too much work, remembers he has to walk Redbeard and then gets up and puts the kettle on anyway.

It's another moment before the Irish setter meanders into the kitchen, snuffles and then trots to Sherlock’s side. “How was your day?” Sherlock asks as he drops down to his knees to give his dog a very throughout scratching. “Mine was brilliant! New case, serial killer, they’re always so desperate to be caught!”

Redbeard gives a little ruff of acknowledgment before walking to the stand by the door and snatching at his leash with his teeth. “Alright, yes, yes,” Sherlock says, pats the dog on the head, goes to turn the kettle back off and gets Redbeard settled for a walk. They walk the deserted streets of London until Sherlock happens upon a pizza restaurant that's open and stops in for a slice. 

He thinks for a time on John5NF and then his thoughts seamlessly transition to thoughts of John Watson. And how completely _not boring_ he had been. It’d been such a pleasant surprise to Sherlock. “That… difficult fellow I was telling you about,” he mentions to Redbeard as they walk and he chews. “He may not be so difficult after all. Aside from his seemingly endless desire to have conversation, he may not be entirely disagreeable. I was entirely correct about the psychosomatic limp, by the way.”

Redbeard walks on, paying Sherlock no mind, instead stopping to sniff at a small tree as he passes. “You know, I do feed and house you,” Sherlock grouses. “The least you could do is pretend to be interested.”

It is right then that Sherlock notices two things: that he is forcing his dog into a one-sided conversation, a topic he’d just been speaking derisively of, and that Redbeard has done his business right in the middle of the pavement. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock pops the rest of his pizza slice into his mouth before performing the requisite clean up. “You silly beast,” he says to the dog. “Next time, perhaps wait for grass.”

Redbeard blinks as he pants, but does nothing else. “You're a terrible listener,” he pats the dog’s head. “You really are.”

The entire walk back to Baker Street, Sherlock turns the details of the case over in his mind, binning the needless effluvia in the skip round back of his mind palace. Everything else he tucks neatly away. 

Sherlock isn't certain he’ll sleep, so he doesn't hesitate in brewing a strong cup of tea and reclining on the sofa, handle steepled beneath his chin; the dog settles on the floor beside him, gnawing contentedly on a large notch of bone. Sherlock is only supine for a few short minutes before he’s whirling back into his coat and heading out. It’s two in the morning by the time he returns back at Baker Street, pink suitcase in hand and a feeling of brazen accomplishment expanding in his chest. He could easily ride this high into the morning, stay up the rest of the night until the sun comes up, puzzling the case, but he knows that the dog will stay up with him and doesn't want to tire Redbeard out. Now that he’s getting older and isn't as spry as he used to be, the dog truly needs his rest. So, with a last glossing over of the details, he locks up his mind palace and sets about getting ready for bed.

Once under the covers, he stares up at the ceiling, again turning over the offer to meet John5NF in his head. What on Earth is he thinking? 

Sherlock turns over onto his left side and shoves a fist beneath his pillow. Anticipation once more wars with trepidation as he forces his eyes closed, a million different scenarios flitting through the empty halls of his mind palace before he wills himself to just stop thinking.

He blinks his eyes open once when Redbeard saunters in and hops up onto the bed; once the dog is settled, Sherlock closes his eyes once more and very nearly has to force himself to sleep but manages it eventually. 

\---

Wednesday dawns rainy and bleak and Sherlock spends a few extra lingering in moments in bed, enjoying the warmth of the dog along his feet. It’s creeping towards nine o’clock and he stretches, reaches for his phone to be met by three texts from Molly. 

_Just got a jumper in. Very interesting. Thought you might want to see!_

_Not jumper as in a sweater obviously. But jumper from a building!_

_Also, gruesome more than interesting. But, gruesome is your interesting, yes?_

The last text shows a time stamp of just a minute before and Sherlock sends a text back, preventing Molly from inundating him with further banalities. _Will be in shortly._ He tosses back the blankets and tugs on a pair of jeans, Redbeard yawning when he appears at his side. “Come on, it’s terrible out, don’t dawdle.” And with that they take to Regent’s Park for a short walk, during which Sherlock manages to wake up.

It’s rounding half-nine and Sherlock notes the fact that in a little under thirty-six hours, he will be meeting John5NF just a short distance away. Sherlock lets Redbeard get a bit of a lead as he half-heartedly makes to snap at some much-faster birds, and his mind wanders. 

He conjures up the image of a man, tall and lean-not unlike himself-with grey hair and a briefcase; the man is donned in a smart suit and expensive watch, and Sherlock immediately rejects what he’s fabricated. Judging by the way his John types and his easy, commoner diction, he can’t fathom John actually looking like that. Another variation, then: still talk, dark skin, bald-headed, denims and a scarf. Attractive, poised. But that too doesn’t sit right with him and Sherlock thinks up another variation on might-be John.

Shorter, stocky, balding and not very dapper, but with a sharp wit and an easy smile. Sherlock’s mouth twists; this amalgamation of John isn’t attractive. If his John5NF, the _real_ John5NF isn’t attractive to him, would it necessarily be a problem?

 _That depends entirely on what you’re interested in,_ he thinks to himself and concedes the point, his face twisting in a half-grimace. His gaze is drawn back to his dog, who is now resting on his belly in the grass, nose to nose with a sparrow, either of them eyeing the other suspiciously. 

“Come boy,” he calls and the dogs gets up with little difficulty, trotting over and taking his place at Sherlock’s side as they leave the park. Sherlock can’t help allowing his mind to linger on that last image, the slightly rotund man with the easy smile; he isn’t attracted to the build or the face he’s dreamed up, not in the slightest. Surely that wouldn’t even be a thought that occured if he wasn’t think of this as something else entirely. 

Something _more_.

“Blast,” Sherlock says under his breath and the dog gives a gentle “Ruff,” detours over to a tree and does his business. Sherlock cleans it up with a clinical detachment, distracted by hopes that John5NF looks more like the first or second version he’s dreamed up rather than the third.

He feels a bit terrible about that, as they walk back home. If John5NF is indeed as interesting and entertaining in person as he is online, it shouldn’t matter what he looks like. But if Sherlock were to want to kiss him-and he does, he finds, want to find out about John5NF’s body _very much_ for no discernible reason at all-he would hesitate if John weren’t… attractive.

To him. 

_God damn it_. They pause together at the corner of Baker Street, a child in a pram reaching out to try and pet Redbeard’s head and Redbeard dutifully stepping closer. 

“Sorry,” the man pushing the pram says and Sherlock lifts his gaze to meet that of the stranger. Mid-thirties, fit, warm brown eyes and a modern coif. Married, but sweet, and Sherlock wonders if John5NF looks like _this_ man. Or if John5NF is married. Or if John5NF is interested in anything more at all. It begins to drive him a bit mad.

“No worries,” Sherlock returns, not unkindly, and crosses to the other side of Baker Street with a reluctant Redbeard in tow. 

Back inside the dog ambles to his water dish and has his fill as Sherlock strips off his clothes, all the while imagining every possible amalgamation of John5NF.

These thoughts consume his mind palace, fill it up like a swarm of moths and he tears at his hair as he works the shampoo through his curls. This is hateful, that he has to wait another entire day to find what John5NF actually looks like. He curses himself for allowing himself such fancies, for harbouring even a shred of hope, for managing to get swept up in all of this in the first place. 

He makes it to the morgue just before Molly generally leaves for lunch, the confusion of desires in his head putting him in a foul mood. 

“Jumper, you said?” he demands as he pushes through the door; to Molly’s credit, she doesn’t jump, but rounds on him slowly.

“Could do with a hello,” she grumbles, and it’s so uncharacteristic of her that it gives Sherlock pause.

“Right,” his mouth feels odd, forming the word. “Hello.”

“Hello, Sherlock,” Molly says, sweeps her ponytail to her other shoulder and peels back the stark, white sheet covering the body before her. “Amir Rolf, twenty-five, pre-med. Tragic, really,” she says, her voice lowering an octave as she takes a step back, hands clasped behind her.

“Yes,” Sherlock says distractedly, detached. “Tragic.”

Molly stands back while Sherlock takes note of abrasions and impact points. He dons a pair of latex gloves and feels out the breaks in the bones, the sharp angles of the body. It’s all fairly interesting, and by the time he’s done and pulled out his small notebook, he’s a wealth of new information. It takes him some time to take it all down, and he does so methodically, from toes to top of the head and begs Molly’s assistance in flipping the man so he can view the deceased’s back.

Sherlock takes his time there as well, producing his pocket magnifier to get a better idea of the head wound. He gets a slap to the arm when he tries to insert his index finger into the wound (even though he knows better) and spends a bit examining the hips and pelvis. He surreptitiously sneaks a few photos before he pockets his mobile and takes a small step back. 

Politely, Molly clears her throat and moves in front of Sherlock, pulls the sheet back over the body and wheels it towards the refrigeration unit. “So,” Molly says, waits, and when Sherlock doesn’t respond, she sighs and continues. “John mentioned that you took him with you on… on a case?”

Sherlock raises a single brow and keeps writing.

“That’s… strangely nice of you,” she continues on, obviously pressing for information.

After a long, silent moment, Sherlock glances up. “He’s a doctor, his opinion was valuable,” he affords, scratching out a calculation in order to redo it. “It was… fine.”

“Fine,” Molly scoffs, rounds the gurney and heads towards her office. “High praise coming from you!” she calls from inside, shucking her lab coat in order to pull on a fluffy cardigan. 

He pockets his notebook and spares her a glance over his shoulder. “Is it?”

Molly reappears, slinging a bag across her body. “I’d say so. But that’s… it’s nice. That you and John are…”

“That John and I are?” he presses back, truly curious, now.

Molly shrugs, minutely, and pulls him towards the door. “I don’t know, being friendly towards one another.”

“Is that what he said?” Sherlock asks, disguising the fact that he’s surprised that he’s following Molly out; he’d normally do everything he could to remain in the morgue and get a look at other bodies. 

Molly stops at the elevators and grins up at him. “He said you’re not so bad. So.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow as he stares into the now-arrived elevator. “So.”

“Better than saying you’re a difficult pain in the rear, isn’t it?” Molly asks innocently and steps delicately into the elevator. “Lunch?”

Isn’t that _interesting_. John Watson doesn’t think he’s a difficult pain in the arse; Sherlock supposes that’s _something_ but he’s just not sure what. By the time he’s made it to Molly’s offer of lunch, she’s leaned forward to ensure that the door remains open for him; his stomach grumbles. 

The black cloud that had threatened to storm over his mind palace recedes as he steps onto the elevator. “Lunch. Yes.”

Molly bounces a bit on the balls of her feet. “Great. Indian buffet?”

And although he hates buffets, Sherlock finds himself accompanying Molly, all the while wondering what else, if anything, John Watson had to say about spending time with him.

\---

Sherlock spends the remainder of the day reorganizing his notes on all jumpers, and begins putting his observations into a document that he decides he may put on his blog. He picks at carry-out fish and chips and types with one hand, abandoning his food to absentmindedly tug at the rawhide that Redbeard brings to him. He leaves his laptop only to take the dog for his evening walk and to feed him. 

He’s entirely occupied with his work and completely forgets about the impending meeting with John5NF until he receives an email from him later that evening. Instantaneously, disappointing thoughts race through his mind. Could John5NF be cancelling? Calling them out for this ridiculous situation that they’ve gotten themselves into?

With bated breath,Sherlock opens the email, only to read, _We’re meeting at 9pm right? You know, the whole, 9-5 thing would make meeting in the morning tough._

And for what must be the thousandth time since Sherlock began talking with John5NF, he releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Overlooking the obvious cliche, Sherlock enters his response. _The evening, yes. I’ll see you then._

Slowly, he lifts his hands away from the keyboard, levers himself back and looks at _John5NF_ , his username showing up as active and online in Sherlock’s contacts. For a brief, insane moment, Sherlock considers messaging him and calling the whole bit off. Instead, he closes his laptop, carefully gets up and shuts all of the lights.

Sherlock strips down to his pants and retires to bed, Redbeard already asleep on the rug next to Sherlock’s preferred side. Once beneath the covers, he stares at the wall, feeling excitement turn to buzzing static in his veins. He shouldn’t be this excited and he knows it; he knows he’s likely going to be disappointed in finally meeting the person he…

He…

Flailing onto his back, Sherlock shoves the covers down to the center of his stomach. _Get yourself together_ he wills himself. _If it goes well, that’s brilliant,_ you’re _brilliant, you’ll suss it all out. And if it doesn’t go well, it’s of no consequence to you whatsoever._

But realizing that finality of that last thought makes Sherlock go a bit cold with dread. This has to go well. It will go well. It will be… fine. He will meet John5NF and it will be… fine.

 _But what if it isn’t?_ his mind circles back and instead of becoming stuck in a loop of circular logic, he flops onto his other side, presses a pillow atop his head and forces himself to recite the entire periodic table, including atomic weight and mass, u ntil he drops off into a fitful sleep.

\---

Sherlock wakes to another bout of chilly rain, London making its desires for Spring known. He feels glum and exhausted, and just as his mind decides to begin a mental countdown of the time until nine that evening, he rucks the covers up and shuffles down underneath them.

A moment later Redbeard hops up and Sherlock lifts his cocoon so that the dog can join him. “I hope you’re not in a rush to get outside because I fully intend to remain here for quite some time.” He doesn’t really want to go back to sleep, but he doesn’t exactly want to get up, either. Redbeard doesn’t respond, but plonks his wet nose in the crook of Sherlock’s elbow and settles in. 

Sherlock sighs, his fingers sliding over the curve of the dog’s ear and thinks for the thousandth time that actually meeting John5NF in person is a complete and utter trainwreck of an idea. “I…” Sherlock begins, and Redbeard slides his dark, glassine gaze up to focus. “Have no idea what the hell I’m doing.”

Again, the dog doesn’t respond and Sherlock feels guilty that he doesn’t want to get up and take him out, but not guilty enough to actually follow through on that. He shoots off a quick text to his landlady Mrs. Hudson, hoping that she’ll take the dog to the shops with her; when she responds that she’d be happy to, Sherlock informs Redbeard of the good news.

He doesn’t seem particularly excited at hearing it. They stare at one another for a time before Redbeard loses interest and the dog’s eyes slide closed; Mrs. Hudson will let herself in as she always does and the dog will go out to meet her, as he always does.

Redbeard peeks his eyes back open, gets up from where he’s plopped down, and walks to the other side of the bed and rearranges himself until he’s comfortable. Sherlock frowns, feels slightly betrayed but follows suit, dozing off to the rain pattering against the window. 

When he comes to this time around, it’s mid-afternoon and the dog is standing next to the bed, staring at him, as though he’s excited to tell Sherlock what’s happened at the shop. Sherlock hates himself momentarily for making Redbeard stay in for as long as he has, and tears himself from the bed. He locates a pair of loose sweatpants, boxer briefs, a vest and a sweatshirt and pulls them all on as he fumbles through the flat to the front door. “Come on, I’ll make it up to you,” and Redbeard trots right up to him and they head out. 

Sherlock runs and runs, finds himself halfway down the Thames with the dog jogging along at his side before he turns around and heads back. He’s been irresponsible as of late with Redbeard; he makes a mental note to have a dog walker more readily available. 

When he’s returned to the flat he’s distracted for a bit by his laptop, reviewing emails that Lestrade has sent him. The sweat on his skin is long since dry when he drags himself to the shower. He spends far too long beneath the spray, going over various ridiculous scenarios in his head, scenarios he acknowledges are insane and very unlikely to happen, but he can’t help mulling over anyway.

The water begins to run cool and he hops out, dries off, opens his wardrobe and begins carefully selecting his outfit for the evening. Everything is properly pressed already, hanging in neat rows organized by color, so it’s quite easy for Sherlock to pluck out a pair of deep navy slacks and a just-barely powder pink shirt. It’s not as aggressive as he generally dresses, but the jacket does add an extra bit of stylish flair. 

He’s dressed with so much time to spare that he thinks he’s gotten ready far too early. He frets about, debates changing his shirt, his trousers, debates whether he should call the whole thing off again. It seems entirely futile, this entire process, and it makes him a bit melancholy. Do other people feel the same way about things of this nature? Do other people-smart people, brilliant people-feel like this around other people?

He stares at his reflection a bit long and then in a fit of pre-date- _Not a date!_ he reminds himself-jitters, spends another twenty minutes ensuring that his hair is just _so_. He realizes, as he pulls his digits away from his curls, that he’s trembling ever so slightly.

Sherlock is absolutely nervous about meeting John5NF.

 _Damn it_.

He regards himself in the mirror and then checks the time, gone just after six. He still has three hours until he meets with John5NF and he’s at a total and complete loss for how to fill it. Normally he’d begin an experiment or search for a lead in the case, but he doesn’t want to run the risk of getting too involved and missing the… meeting.

 _This trivial fancy is already compromising the Work_ , his mind chides, but he ignores it.

If he hurries, he supposes he could catch Molly-who is still up to her eyeballs with backlog- before she leaves for the day, perhaps get another look at that jumper, see if any new bruising or clotting has formed. It’s as good a plan as any, so once he ensures that he has his wallet, keys, and coat, he bounds down the steps and hails a cab.

\---

Molly is in the process of closing up for the evening when he finally arrives, traffic making him later than he’d intended. That adds to his frayed nerves, but he does his level best to mask that as he catches her attention. “Oh,” she says happily, though surprised, blowing a tuft of hair out of her eyes. “Sherlock, hi! I was just getting ready to pack up!”

“As I can see,” he returns, not unkindly. He even throws in a smile, for good measure. “I was hoping I could get another look at the jumper from yesterday, see if any new bruising has formed.”

“I’m sorry, he’s been sent for cremation by the family, otherwise I would have…” She shrugs, and wheels a gurney back towards the refrigeration bay. 

Sherlock remains where he’s standing, hands at his sides, at a loss for what to do. “Is Doctor Watson around?” he finally asks, not entirely sure why he’s so eager to find the answer to that question. God, he’s being battered about by desires he’s so unaccustomed to; it’s unsettling.

She goes to right her ponytail, realizes that she still has her gloves on and sighs. “John? No. He was in at half six this morning working through the backlog so I made him leave early.” Molly pulls off the latex covering her hands with the precision of someone who is incredibly used to performing a task. “Hard worker, that one. Bless Mike for sending him along, really.”

Sherlock’s lips twist in indecision and he turns to begin flipping through the charting that John has prepared for tomorrow’s work. “He’s… methodical.”

“Hmmm?” she hums from her office, locating her coat and shutting the light. “Oh, yeah. Yes, he is.”

Sherlock blinks at her, takes in her shoes, her coat, the sweater she’s decided on. “And uhm, I’m sorry but there’s really no one else interesting,” she giggles. “Either dead or alive.”

“Come now, Molly,” Sherlock says, remembering for a flash of a second who he is supposed to meet later on, a fresh set of nervous shivers rocking his stomach. “There’s you.”

Instead of taking the compliment, her eyes narrow and she clutches around the strap of her bag. “What… what’s going on? You’re being...nice.”

“I’m always nice!” Sherlock attempts, the words sounding ludicrous to even his ears.

The look that Molly gives him proves she’s not buying it. “Sherlock Holmes, how long have I known you?” She doesn’t pause to give him time to respond. “I know when you’re not… you. When you’re… hiding something.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow in turn and they’re left staring at one another. It’s very nearly a standoff, until Molly puts her hand on her hip, torques her head and _really_ stares, giving him the impression that she’s in this for the long haul.

“Fine,” he grumbles, gaze sliding to the floor. “I’m… meeting with someone this evening.”

Molly’s eyes are very nearly slits. “For a case? You meet people all the time. Why are you-” and then her eyes widen and a cheeky grin slides up onto her face. “Oh! You mean! _Meet_ meet someone! Like a, a date!”

“ _Not_ a date,” he insists, taking a step back from her, holding his hands up defensively. 

“Oh Sherlock,” and she actually claps her hands together in excitement. “When?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, turns his head, speaks the response very quietly, over his shoulder. “Nine. At Speedy’s.”

She glances down at her watch, “But you have over two hours.”

Again, he rolls his eyes, nods and glances over Molly’s shoulder. It’s silent for a time and then Molly is passing by him, snagging him by the elbow and tugging him along. “Come on, let’s at least get a drink into you, loosen you up.”

It’s a testament to how out of his element he is that he doesn’t bother fighting it. 

They wind up taking a cab to Molly’s local and Molly orders them both a glass of wine, something Sherlock is grateful for; he’s not sure that he could stomach lager. They’re silent for a bit, Molly content to watch the other patrons around them, Sherlock staring down into the depths of his glass.

“So… how did you meet this…” Molly starts in with no prompting or warning.

Sherlock runs an index finger along the lip of his glass and then picks it up to drink. “He and I’ve not met, we’re going to…”

“Like a blind date! How exciting!” Molly says, actually having the audacity to clap her hands together again, in a crowded bar.

“Not-” he begins, only to be abruptly cut off.

“Oh god, Sherlock. Did you meet him on…” Her voice drops to a whisper, “Grindr?”

“What! No!”

Her voice is almost pitying when she follows up. “You know what Grindr-”

“Yes, Molly. I know what Grindr- no. I, we met online. In another capacity.” With that he finishes his glass of wine.

She takes a prim little sip and then levels him with her intense gaze. “You’re nervous. Tell me why.”

“I,” he rolls his eyes, his optic nerves feeling the strain of this gesture more acutely as he’s employed it heavily over the last hour. “He’s not… awful.”

Molly’s eyes soften and he nearly hops up and tears out then and there. But he remains, feeling the alcohol make his belly go warm. “And?” Molly prods gently, motioning to the bartender for another for Sherlock.

“Why do you care? I thought you found me to be…” and he can’t find the word for it, feels ridiculous for having to trail off.

“Listen,” Molly says, sipping again at her glass. “You’re handsome, dashing really, and quite smart and yes, you’re… you know, _fit_ but…” She sighs. “Just a bit of a crush, I never thought it would go anywhere. I know… how you are and you know how I am and… it was just nice to think about, I suppose. But that doesn’t mean!” Molly says with renewed vigor, “That I don’t want to see you, you know, happy and… just, happy, Sherlock.”

“That is…” Sherlock pauses, frowns. “Odd.”

“Yes, well… friends think those things about their… friends,” she finished lamely. 

It’s uncomfortable for a time and the bartender drops off another glass of red and retreats hastily. “I…” he begins, pausing to swallow down the ball of anxiety that’s lodged in his throat; he works his jaw back and forth, searching for the words, pushing past the awkwardness that he feels in discussing any of this with Molly. “He’s… intelligent. Can’t type worth a damn and perhaps shares too much with a stranger on the internet but… it’s strange.”

“Can’t stop thinking about him?” she asks, wistfulness in his voice, her inebriation clean in her speech and cheeks.

Sherlock shakes his head, swirls his wine. “I find that I can’t. It’s… distracting.”

“Well,” Molly says. “Don’t be nervous. It’s a nice feeling though too, isn’t it?” She watches Sherlock until he nods. “I know it’s, it’s… pointless to say that but you’re dapper and lovely and while you leave an awful lot to be desired in the… _nice_ department, you’re not bad. And, and… I think… that you-”

“I’m nervous to find what he looks like.”

“And you’re…” her eyes move from side to side, sussing out what he’s trying to say. “Worried that you’re shallow if you’re not physically attracted to him?”

He blows a harsh breath out through his nose, nods once in confirmation. 

Shrugging, Molly picks up her glass and polishes it off; she checks her watch and pushes Sherlock’s wine towards his hand. “That’s not shallow, everyone thinks that. It can be a problem if you’re not physically attracted to someone that you’re emotionally attracted to sure, but you’re getting ahead of yourself. You have to _meet_ him first.” She pulls a few notes from her purse and leaves them on the table. “Speaking of, let’s get you back to Baker Street. Don’t want you to be late.”

Sherlock stands, checking his watch, and is shocked to find that it’s nearing quarter past eight. Hastily, he dons his jacket and follows Molly as she weaves through the people towards the door.

She begins down the pavement in the opposite direction of the Tube and Sherlock pauses on the pavement, wondering why she’s not headed home. “Well, come on then,” she says when she turns, the alcohol having loosened her considerably. “It’s not far. I’ll walk you there, keep your nerves in check.”

He has no words; he wants to say something scathing, get her to leave, but he finds that he doesn’t want to be alone with his thought. How Molly knows this is entirely a mystery to him, but he finds himself walking towards her, the two of them rounding the corner in the direction of Baker Street. 

They’re silent for most of the walk, but as they draw closer, Sherlock finds that his apprehension keeps notching up a level. They reach a crosswalk two blocks from Baker Street and Molly glances up at him. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“It’s going to be fine.”

“I know it’s going to be fine,” he spits back, and she smiles.

A block and a half now and Sherlock swallows thickly, thinking again, for an insane moment, that he can still call this all off, remain happy with the status quo. But by the time he’s through debunking that as a bad idea, they’re on Baker Street, the dirty, red awning of Speedy’s just in view.

Molly stops halfway down the pavement and grabs his arm. He too halts, turns to face her. “Sherlock, you’re really brilliant and very good looking and well off and a catch, I think, but just…”

Sherlock swallows again, wonders where all of his saliva has gone to. “Just?”

“Don’t say…” Molly presses her lips together and reassesses. “Think before you speak, alright?”

Sherlock blinks, gives a half nod, takes a step back on the pavement and looks up at the awning. He finds, suddenly, that he cannot possibly move forward. Molly too takes a step back, glances at him, at the awning and gives him a pitying little half smile.

“Would you like me to go in, grab a coffee, maybe see if I can figure out what he looks like?”

God, he feels pathetic, absolutely ridiculous. It shouldn’t matter! It _shouldn’t_ matter, but he finds himself saying “yes” anyway.

Molly pats his arm. “Just… wait here, I won’t be a tick.”

And then she’s gone, in through the door of Speedy’s and Sherlock’s heart begins beating so fast he’s rather sure he’s about to have a heart attack. He begins counting the seconds as they tick away, fifteen, fifty, three-hundred and twenty-one. Sherlock remains stock-still on the pavement, even as he wants to tear at his hair, dash inside, phone Molly and tell her to _get back out here already_ but he, miraculously, does none of those things.

He waits and waits and six minutes and four seconds later, Molly emerges, a paper cup of coffee in her hand. 

“Well?” he hisses when she’s still nearly ten feet away. 

Molly’s eyes are wide and her lips move, though no speech comes out. “Well, uhm. He’s… fit. Sure, yeah. Uhm…” Worrying her lip between her teeth, she meets Sherlock’s gaze before she continues. “About, say, oh five foot seven inches, sandy blonde hair, kind eyes, very nice smile, well-dressed and erm…”

Sherlock wants to shake the rest out of her, wants to positively throttle it out.

“And? And!?”

“And a gainfully-employed, ex-military man,” she finishes, rushing through that.

Sherlock’s eyes narrow as he slots all of the information into place in his head, conjuring up five, seven, twenty versions of the man she’s just described. But it’s the last bit that trips him up, that gives him pause. “How could you possibly know he’s gainfully-employed and ex-military?” he asks scathingly.

Molly tears her gaze away, gives a little, uncomfortable laugh and picks at the cardboard cover around her hot coffee cup. “Oh, uhm, don’t be angry, don’t… get upset but your uhm, your blind date or _not_ date or whatever…”

“Molly!” he very nearly shouts.

“It’s John Watson!” she shouts back and then cringes, her teeth a straight line in her mouth. “Your date is John Watson.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And I thought all of your, your, what, deductions? I thought they were so brilliant. Really, truly brilliant and then ‘Oh, I’m William,’ and of _course_ it would be William and not _Billy_ or Bill or Will because you’re _you_.”

John fiddles with the phone in his pocket for the third time in as many minutes; he won’t check it. He refuses to check it. Checking it again would seem desperate and manic. He won’t check.

But he wants to, desperately.

The clock on the wall above the pastry case shows that it’s 9:05 and John can’t help but wonder for the umpteenth time if he’s being stood up. Even before it’d been after nine, he’d wondered it. He puts his hands to use, swivels the handle of his cappuccino from side to side, takes a sip, checks the time again.

He feels foolish and unhinged and he tears his gaze away from the clock and settles it instead on the paper that he’d been half-heartedly reading since he arrived. “Refit for Historic Hospital”, “Auto Accident Kills Two”, “Tottenham Set to Take On Chelsea”, read the headlines, but nothing appeals. He’s about to flip the paper and begin the crossword when the bell above the door tolls and John can’t help but look up.

His heart leaps to his throat and then simultaneously dives into his stomach. Sherlock Holmes is at the counter ordering a coffee and fluffing up his hair.

Oh Christ.

John picks up the paper, spilling a bit of his coffee in the process and holds it up in front of his face. He doesn’t want the world’s most observant person reading about all… of _this_ on his face. He wouldn’t be able to stand if it he were ridiculed because of this. He slumps down in his chair, just a bit, and hopes and hopes that once Sherlock is served his coffee, he will leave.

He also uses the opportunity to wrestle his phone from his pocket and check his email to ensure that he hasn’t received a message from Guest.

To his increasing dismay, he finds that he hasn’t.

For a few minutes, John actually reads the article that he happened to pull up in front of him, something about a transportation bill that won’t be passed, and when he’s satisfied that he’s waited enough time, he peeks out from behind a corner of the paper at the counter to find that Sherlock is no longer standing there.

John releases a sigh, sits up and goes to fold the paper, startling when he finds Sherlock Holmes seated at the table just across from him. “John Watson, I knew it was you from the shoes. Well, and the way you’ve placed your cup and saucer just so. Are you hiding from me?”

Sherlock’s voice is cocky, and it rankles something within John. Sure, they’d had fun (an _exhilarating adventure_ his mind helpfully supplies) the other evening, but Sherlock is still a bit of an arse. And what’s more, he doesn’t want Guest to be scared off if he arrives to find John with someone else.

He blows out a breath through his nose. “Hiding? No. Avoiding, yes.”

Sherlock smiles placidly back, taking a dainty sip of his coffee. “Odd running into you here.”

“Odd running into _you_ here,” John grumbles, but know that Sherlock will see the truth of it all. John’s cheeks color with his effort not to be embarrassed.

“Mmm, no, I live just upstairs you see. But you, well… live on the other side of the city? Are here on a Tuesday evening drinking coffee. Pressed shirt, bit of gel in your hair. And aftershave, _oh_ , but just a bit, don’t want to come on too strong.” Sherlock looks so damned self-satisfied that John wants to throw his coffee at him. “A _date_.”

“ _Not_ a date,” John returns, dragging a hand over his face. “Meeting a friend. None of your business, actually.”

“Ah, interested in the friend, though,” he says and John presses his lips together in a straight line, attempts not to give anything away. “Are they…” Sherlock glances around the cafe and then innocently back at John. “Late?”

“He’s… yeah, he’s a bit late,” John concedes.

“He! Oh, well, John, I-”

“No, stop right there. Just a friend, just a-”

“But you want him to be _more_ than a friend, oh, how trite.” He swears that Sherlock’s eyes glitter, at that.

John’s scowl is so fierce he can feel it in the bridge of his nose. “Right, yeah, well. You’re not staying, so, if you could. Thanks for being, you know, a dick. Thought that maybe after-”

“After?” Sherlock inquires.

“Lunch. After that. And the case, thought that you might be… that we might be friendly but-”

Sherlock rests the edge of his cup against his lip as he says, “I don’t have friends.”

“That’s shocking to discover,” John returns, with a scathing little laugh. “And since you’re not my friend, you probably shouldn’t be sitting with me, so.”

“You’d discover a lot of things if you really knew me.” Sherlock places his cup down with so much care that it reads as patronizing.

“Ah, yeah, CPU instead of a heart? Encyclopedia instead of a brain?” And then John smiles. The words land hard and oily between them.

“Excuse me?” Sherlock perks one brow and stares.

“Nothing, I… just had a, nevermind.” John tidies the space in front of him briefly, pushing all of the bits of sugar wrapper into a little pile. “We don’t have to be friends, but I shouldn’t be a dick back to you. So. Sorry, goodnight, if you could,” and John motions with his hands for Sherlock to shoo.

He’s stunned when Sherlock shrugs, smiles and stands; for a moment he’s relieved, but then Sherlock moves to the table in front of him and takes a seat facing John, smiling serenely all the while. “Not what I meant,” John says, but Sherlock just presses his lips together and raises his brows in a silent _not my problem_ and sips at his coffee.

John does his best to ignore him, scans the paper, susses out some of the clues to the crossword, but finds that he can _feel_ Sherlock’s gaze on him. “What?” he gives in, eventually glaring across the table at Sherlock.

“Do you know what this coffee reminds me of? The first day I met you,” Sherlock says, and it’s a shade close to wistful.

John laughs silently. “The first day you lied to me.”

“What? I never lied.”

“Yes you did.”

“I certainly did not.”

“You did.”

“John, I-”

“And I thought all of your, your, what, deductions? I thought they were so brilliant. Really, truly brilliant and then ‘Oh, I’m William,’ and of _course_ it would be William and not _Billy_ or Bill or Will because you’re _you_.”

Sherlock immediately stands and swoops back over to the table, taking his previously abandoned seat. “I didn’t lie, and I _have_ a heart.”

John’s mouth twists. “Oh you poor, arrogant arsehole genius. I feel so sorry for you. Have I hurt your feelings?”

It’s that moment that the bell chimes and John tears his gaze away from Sherlock’s shocked expression and looks towards the door, but it’s a couple come in to order coffee. And he can’t help it, truly cannot, when his expression falls. It’s nine-fifteen now, and no Guest. God, he feels like an utter fool.

“Tell me John,” Sherlock begins quietly, and John spends a moment more admiring the couple before turning his attention back to Sherlock. “Will you be this _mean_ to your ‘him’, too?”

“Of course not,” John says, know he shouldn’t take the bait, but he’s so emotionally raw and quite upset and he wants to make Sherlock hurt. It’s vindictive, it’s cruel and childish, but he wants to get a rise out of the stoic machine Sherlock Holmes. “Because the man I’m meeting is nothing like you. He’s clever, and funny, he’s got a cracking sense of humor-”

Sherlock slashes in, “But. He’s not here.”

“Maybe not,” John’s right fist clenches and unclenches on his thigh. “But he’s a good man. And he listens to me. And he’s not… not a fucking dick. He’s got your intelligence but he’s _kind_. He wants to talk to me, wants to hear what I have to say, doesn’t… just open his mouth and say the first thing that comes to mind. He’s… no. No, he’s what he is, and you? You’re nothing but a bloody machine.”

John’s words ring in his ears, and the pleasure that had been building as he’d spoken the words recedes immediately and guilt cloaks over him. _Too far, Watson. Too far._ Sherlock eyes dull a bit and he sits back against the seat, wrapping both hands around his coffee.

“That,” Sherlock says, snapping the final ‘t’. “Is my cue, I believe.” He pulls both of his hands away from his cup and when he stands, he immediately turns his back on John and without another word, he leaves, pushes open the door to the cafe and is gone from sight.

John’s gaze lingers on the door for quite some time, until he finally looks away, finds that it’s nine-forty-five and checks his email, a last-ditch effort. But there are no new messages, no new pieces of mail.

John leaves, not bothering to finish his cappuccino, fisting his hands deep into the pockets of his coat and resolves to walk home, head bent down against the wind.

 

\---

It all slots into place for Sherlock; immediately upon entering the flat he falls against the door and groans, dragging his hands down over his face. “Fascinating, handsome, interesting, _exciting_ , how did you _miss_ this?” he laments aloud, even going so far as to thunk his head off the door as he grasps at the hair above his ears. “Idiot!”

Of course it had to be John Watson. It wasn’t a leap that Molly had made, as he’d been the only single person in the cafe at the time. But Sherlock hadn’t believed it until he saw John with his own eyes.

Of course it had to be him, of course it did.

If Sherlock believed in fate, he might believe that fate was playing a cruel joke on him. But he doesn’t believe in fate, or luck, so he just stews at his own ineptitude.

Closing his eyes, he replays every second of the interaction, from John’s initial scowl to the very last blink and he _hates_ himself. Hates that John hadn’t been excited to see him. God, he’d been waiting for Guest and all he got was…

...someone he apparently despised.

Sherlock suddenly finds that he too despises himself; to be someone that John doesn’t like, to be someone that one of the best people he’s ever interacted with doesn’t take to…

_You didn’t do yourself any favors,_ his mind chides. _You could have told him that you’re Guest_.

“But if he doesn’t know, we can continue to correspond.” He says aloud. Except, John might not want to now that he’s been stood up. Sherlock has done a terrible thing, broken John’s trust, made him feel unwanted.

He really, truly despises himself in that moment, has never hated himself more.

Sherlock manages to pull himself off of the door (he hears Mrs. Hudson coming and doesn’t want to explain why he’s tearing himself to pieces in the entryway) and dashes up the steps to the flat. Redbeard greets him expectantly, tail wagging, as though to ask how it all went, and he gives the dog a withering look and collapses onto the sofa.

“It was John Watson,” he mutters, angling his gaze down at his pet. The dog ruffs and then manages to get himself up onto the sofa, plopping his head into Sherlock’s lap. “I know. I should have known. How did I miss it? _How_?” The dog, of course, says nothing back and so Sherlock slumps, lolls his head over the back of the sofa and releases a hearty sigh, feels as though he can’t expel all of the the air pressing against his lungs. “And then what I said…”

Sherlock bonks his head three times against the sofa and presses a thumb and a forefinger to the inner corners of his eyes. “What I said! Imbecile, positively uncalled for. He’ll never… John will never…” Swallowing thickly, he reminds himself that John doesn’t yet know that he is indeed Guest. John knows nothing of Guest, has no idea why Guest stood him up.

And Sherlock gets an idea.

The thought of lying to John turns his stomach, makes him feel–somehow–even more wretched. John is… John Watson, the amalgamation of his online persona and his real self, is a wonderful accident of a human being. He’s perhaps the least boring person that Sherlock Holmes has met and Sherlock in his infinite wisdom realizes that… he can’t lose this. He can’t lose this thing that is budding between them. The only person he’s truly engaged with since… Sherlock can’t remember when; the only person that Sherlock looks forward to speaking with.

And now, he realizes after having John beside him on a case, after being on the receiving end of his ire, that John is strong-willed and intelligent and funny and handsome and _exciting_ and, and, and-

…and he can’t lose any of that.

So it’s up to him to convince John–without bloody _lying_ –that Guest had a very, very good reason for not showing up. He has to win John’s trust back, as both Guest and as Sherlock Holmes, has to earn John’s affection, his attention, his friendship.

“Up with you,” he says as he pets Redbeard’s head, jostling the dog as he gets up to retrieve his laptop. He returns to his seat on the sofa as he waits for the computer to boot up, immediately resolved to attempt to set things right.

He thinks for a time, a new mail window open and worries over what to say. Sentiment, never his strong suit.

Everything he comes up with seems trite and ridiculous; he imagines himself saying it all aloud and feels a total fool. His fingertips tap over the keys but everything that comes to mind he dismisses as being somehow _not enough_ , not right, not proper.

Frustrated and a bit raw and tired from the sheer load of emotions he’s experienced over the past day, he slams his laptop closed. For a bit he wanders the kitchen, attempting to decide which one of his experiments requires attention, but eventually he gives up and retreats to his bedroom.

Dramatically, he pitches himself still-clothed, face-down on the bed and groans. “Idiot,” he says before rolling onto his back and kicking off his shoes. “You idiot,” he says once more and wrangles the blankets around himself, resolving to wallow in his own inability to deduce that it was John in the first place.

Snuggling down into his plush bedding he pouts into his duvet and closes his eyes. _For the most brilliant man in all of London,_ his inner voice chides, _you’re being remarkably thick._

“Shut up!” he shouts to the empty room and drops off to sleep without realizing he’s being pulled under.

He wakes again at three, parched and achey and with a raging headache. He has a cup of tea, takes Redbeard out around the back, in the little alley where Mrs. Hudson keeps her bins, and then returns to bed, researches a few cases on the internet as he compulsively checks his email and opens and closes new message boxes. He retires again to sleep once the sun has risen, finally pulling off his clothes and pulling the covers up over himself to the headboard, topping it all off with a pillow over his head.

At eleven, he rolls out of bed feeling like a _disaster_ , drinks four glasses of water and checks his email while his toothbrush sticks out of his mouth.

As it happens, it’s a terrible idea; he very nearly chokes on the toothpaste, opting to spit the entire brush into the sink. There’s an email there, amongst the replies from Lestrade and the pleas of people to take their cases, from John. There’s no subject, and for some reason that sets Sherlock’s nerves on edge.

Resisting the urge to bite his lip, he opens the mail, like ripping off a bandage.

_I’ve been thinking about you. Last night I went to meet you and you weren’t there. I wish I knew why. I felt so foolish. And while I waited another man showed up, a man who has made my professional life… difficult. And I said some things to him that I wish I hadn’t, I felt terrible. Just as you said I would. I was cruel and I’m not really ever cruel. No matter what he’s done to me there’s no excuse for me to say things like that to him. Thought we could have been friends but I guess not. Anyway, I so wanted to talk to you. I hope you have a good reason for not being there last night._

_The odd thing about this sort of communication is you’re more likely to talk about nothing than something but I just wanted to say that all of this nothing has been really great. So thanks._

Sherlock swallows against the strange lump that’s risen to his throat and is immediately sent into a coughing fit from the toothpaste there. Rinsing his mouth quickly, he takes his mobile back to bed and sits atop the mattress, cross-legged.

His thumb hovers over ‘reply’ for a good, few moments before he actually taps it. And when he does, the blinking cursor mocks him. There and gone and there and gone. What on earth does he say to _that_?

_Sentiment is not a strong suit, brother dear,_ he hears Mycroft, condescending in his head. With a wave of his hand he banishes Mycroft to the attic of his mind palace.

_Think,_ think!

What would he want to read, what would he want to receive in response to being stood up by someone he’d been so hoping to meet?

Sherlock begins slow, his fingers typing out the email with care.

_I was incapacitated,_ Sherlock begins and then groans, dips his head in momentary surrender. He deletes it all.

He runs his thumbs along the side of his mobile and attempts to begin again, but the dog hops up and rests his snout on Sherlock’s thigh. He drops a hand to Redbeard’s head and pets him briefly before scratching behind the ears.

Sherlock bites his lip, tries, _There was a very interesting death and-_

But that too seems wrong. He doesn’t want to hurt John, and what a novel sensation _that_ is, to worry about hurting someone else. He doesn’t want to lie to him, either. He wants, truly, to go back and do it all over again, enter the coffee shop and sit down and just… just watch John’s reaction.

But he can’t. And so, he settles for a vaguely poetic truth.

_Dear friend: I cannot tell you what happened last night, but I beg you from the bottom of my heart to forgive me for what happened. I feel terrible that you found yourself in a situation that caused you additional pain. But I'm absolutely sure that whatever you said last night was provoked, even deserved. And everyone says things they regret when they're worried or stressed. You were expecting to see someone you trusted and met the enemy instead. The fault is mine. Someday I'll explain everything. Meanwhile, I'm still here. Talk to me.”_


	11. Chapter 11

John spends Wednesday in a haze, dealing with the work Molly had left for him to take on while she attended a training. He’s thankful to have the morgue to himself, poring over the situation with Guest until he finds that it’s nearly lunchtime and he decides to take lunch out in the park, grabbing a wrap along the way.

He sits down with his food and opens his email and there it is. Finally. A reply.

John hems and haws over the email for a time, reading and rereading it, concocting all sorts of scenarios as to why Guest hadn’t been able to meet with him. His chest aches as he reads the words, sweet and kind and apologetic. John reads the email and thinks that these words are possibly the only amalgamation of text that he could have received as an apology; he very nearly thinks them perfect.

But he can’t help but ruminate on what _would_ have happened if he’d met Guest; had he dodged a bullet? Would Guest have taken one look at him and run away in horror? He’s not a vain man, but he knows he’s attractive. Maybe he wasn’t Guest’s type and maybe Guest was trying to let him down easy and maybe…

When he begins wading into the realm of self-deprecation he shuts his email browser and begins looking for available flatshares in London.

If he can’t meet Guest, he’s going to occupy himself with doing something that will make him feel good, make him feel accomplished: he’s going to find himself a proper flat. The bedsit is _fine_ ; but that’s all it is: serviceable and certainly not up to snuff now that he’s making a decent paycheck.

Resolving to let Guest stew for a bit, he goes back to work and finishes out his day quietly. When he returns home, he makes himself a quick curry and shops around on all of the flatsharing sites that he’s familiar with, and after a few hours, begins putting out feelers, sending a few emails to the more promising-looking places. Though he feels accomplished, and though he’s made proper progress in getting himself out of his slump, the cloud of melancholy that had come from the aborted meeting with Guest still lingers over his head.

John spends a good portion of the evening–even while he’s flathunting–trying not to think about Guest, failing, chastising himself for pining over something he doesn’t even _know_. He retires to bed with an oily taste in his mouth, not even bothering to lay out his clothes for the next day.

That, as it turns out, is a mistake. Come morning, John leaps from bed a half an hour late, having forgotten to set his alarm the night previous. Guest had taken up too much of his attention and his lack thereof has resulted in him running behind for work. John knows that Molly won’t be upset with him, but he holds himself to a higher standard than that; he spends the fifteen minutes it takes him to get ready mentally berating himself for the oversight.

He doesn’t have time to think about his email until he’s on the Tube, and then he doesn’t have service. In his dash to Bart’s there’s no time either, and so John gets down to the morgue without happening to have opened his inbox for the day.

“Sorry. So sorry,” he says as he shucks his jacket in Molly’s office, hastily pulling on his lab coat.

Molly just glances up at him, calm and amused, and shrugs. “Didn’t miss much. Turns out these corpses have nowhere to be.”

John raises his eyes in question and Molly flushes, explains, “Was a joke. You know, because they’re dead.” Her mouth tips in an attempt at a smile, but it’s evident that she’s too embarrassed. “Anyway, I got you coffee. Since you were… running late.” With a pen, she slides the paper cup across the desk. It’s not gourmet, but it’s serviceable, and he drains half of the tepid liquid before thanking her profusely.

“No worries. Figured you could use it.” He sits across from her, begins glancing over the intake forms for the bodies they have to process throughout the day. It’s a good few minutes of silence before Molly cuts in, voice even and inquisitive. “I didn’t know you lived by Regent’s Park; nice area.”

John startles and then remembers, she’d run into him at Speedy’s last night. “Oh, ah, ha. I don’t actually, do you?”

“No, no, was ah, meeting a friend over there. Happened to run into Sherlock on the way and…” her mouth makes a funny little switch and her cheeks color again; John suddenly finds himself wondering just how many times a day she blushes.

“Oh, right, I uh, he lives over there, doesn’t he? He came into the café just after you did.”

“Did he? I thought he’d gone to his flat,” she says, tucking and tucking and smoothing a section of hair behind her ear. “Did you two…”

“What?”

“I don’t know, you said you ran into him, I thought that maybe you had a chat.”

John considers. He wishes he’d had a chat, wishes he’d had the presence of mind to just have a chat with Sherlock Holmes. He’d been too preoccupied with anticipating Guest that he’d acted unkindly. Again. And he’d thought they were making progress; acquaintances were better than nothing, John figured, and it had been such a fantastic time visiting a crime scene, getting to see Sherlock put his powers of deduction to proper, good use.  If things had gone differently…

If only…

His life, John accepts, is full of a considerable amount of “if onlys” lately.

“I… I’m sorry Molly,” John blows out a short breath and clicks his ballpoint pen closed. “We did have a chat. I was… well, I was waiting for someone and I was…”

She clicks her pen closed as well and focuses all of her attention on him; it feels… strange. “You were?”

“A bit of a bastard, actually,” John says ruefully with a bitter little laugh. “Seems like it’s two steps forward and three back as far as Sherlock Holmes is concerned.”

Molly smiles at that, “He doesn’t make it easy to be anything but standoffish sometimes, I’ll give you that. No matter _how_ handsome he is.”

“You think he’s handsome,” John deadpans it, leans back in his chair and brings a hand to his mouth.

“Don’t you?” She asks, point-blank, her eyes clear and eager and searching.

One brow arches without any forethought and then he’s tipping his head back and laughing, loud and long. When he’s through, he finds that Molly is still gazing at him, her expression unchanged. “What?”

“Do you think he’s handsome?”

“This isn’t a sleepover night, Molly,” he reprimands, horrified to feel his cheeks heating. “This is probably not work appropriate.”

“Probably not,” she says, good-naturedly, and then leans forward on her elbows. “But I’m technically your boss so I get to determine _that_. Come on, you seriously don’t find him handsome?”

“I find him,” John begins and then stops, tongue resting pensively against his upper lip. “Brilliant. Quite brilliant and… he’s interesting, to be sure. Enigmatic, I’d even say but-“

“Not handsome,” she finishes for him and her voice holds such a tone of mocking that it grates against his nerves. “I don’t believe that.”

“Alright, the man is quite fit and he’s got… you know… nice eyes-“

“Nice arse,” Molly interjects cheekily and John rolls his eyes.

“Hadn’t noticed.”

“Sure you hadn’t.”

“Molly-“

“Sorry, just having a little fun at your expense.” Her answering smile is apologetic but delighted and she flips her intake folder back open. John sips at his coffee and it’s another few moments before she interrupts. “Who were you waiting for the other night, by the way? Date?”

“Why, interested?” John fires back, and they stare at one another for a moment before they both burst into giggles. “Sorry.”

“No, I… I’m sorry. I just, it’s been ages since I’ve worked with someone and I thought. I don’t know. I’d like to be friendly.”

For a moment, John considers that, weighs the pros and cons and decides, “I’d like that too.”

“Good,” Molly nearly squeaks. “So. Who were you meeting?”

“Not a date,” John says and even he can hear the disappointment in his voice. “Was meeting a friend. An… old friend?” It’s a question; how does he describe Guest. “New, old friend.”

“New… old friend?”

“We’ve never actually met.”

“Ohhhh,” Molly says knowingly and has abandoned the pretense of working. “Internet.”

“Yeah,” John says, guiltily. “Should I erm, be embarrassed by that?”

“I don’t think so,” Molly says and shrugs. “Should I be embarrassed that I internet date? No. The world’s not what it used to be.”

“It wasn’t a… date.”

“I didn’t say it was. But it seems like maybe… you wanted it to be? I don’t know.”

“You know… I don’t really know either.”

“Well, want to… tell me about them?”

John gives her a stern look.

“What! This is work appropriate! This would be considered water cooler talk… if we had a water cooler.”

“Body fridge talk,” John says under his breath and Molly gives a surprised little laugh.

“Sure, yes. Body fridge talk, then.”

John presses his lips together, his internal struggle over whether to share or withhold taking up several moments. All the while, Molly watches him, her eyes flicking from the contents of her file and back several times before John has made up his mind.

“He’s ah, very interesting. Very intelligent. Works for the police I think, but I don’t know. We haven’t really shared much about our personal lives. But we talk a lot. We chat about everything else.” John bites at his bottom lip. “Has a dog that uh, uhm… I’m sorry, it feels so… foreign, talking to you about him when I don’t even know him.”

“Not even a name?” Molly asks searchingly, and when John shakes his head, she actually brings her hands to her mouth. “Oh, that’s romantic.”

John scoffs, finishing off his coffee. “How is anonymity romantic?”

Molly looks wistfully over John’s right shoulder. “Don’t know what he looks like, don’t know his name. Only your conversations to go on… that’s romantic.”

John clears his throat; he supposes it is a bit romantic, when you get right down to it.

“Anyway,” he says, louder than he’d been speaking previously, breaking the apprehension he feels building inside of him. “I don’t… I… he never showed up.” John feels like a fish out of water, his heart rate increasing as he thinks about Guest, what he feels about Guest, how incredibly real all of this online anonymity has become. God, he’s hurt, in that moment, as he thinks about how much he wants to _meet_ Guest, see him, touch him, _know_ him. He’s hurt that it hadn’t happened. And he’s overwhelmed that he’s ruminating and feeling all of this _now_ , at work, in front of Molly.

He presses a balled up fist to his thigh and grits his teeth. “I’m sorry, I just…”

“It’s fine, it’s okay,” Molly placates and makes a show of readying herself to get down to work. “But… I have to know. Are you going to try to meet him again?”

“I don’t… I honestly don’t know,” John decides and moves an entire stack of folders in front of him.

Molly just smiles, her eyes shining with something John can’t place. It’s like she knows something, can see something in him. “Well, if it’s meant to be… just… be patient.”

“Patient.”

“I’ve uhm, done a lot of online things. If I have any advice to give… it’s to be patient.”

She smiles at him and then motions to the pile of folders before them, effectively ending the conversation.

John finally checks his email at lunch, placing the phone down on the table and scrolling through with his left index finger as he digs into his cobb salad with the other hand.

Trash, trash, trash and then-

He rereads the email and he finds that now, it’s almost too much. It’s soft in a way John hadn’t expected and it’s so beseeching that John feels almost foolish for how he’d speculated so wildly about what had happened.  He reads the email twice more while he eats and when he’s through with lunch, he finds he still has twenty minutes before he needs to get back.

John opts for a walk; sunlight is precious when you work in the morgue, he’s found, and he’ll take even the overcast sky of London after being deprived of natural light for so long. As he walks he considers what to write back; twenty-four hours is enough time to leave Guest hanging. Would explaining how being stood up made him felt be the right avenue, or should he brush it off as though it had been nothing?

By the time he’s made it two blocks he decides that this interaction, this _friendship_ , this whatever the hell it is… is too important to him; he can’t risk lying. Can’t risk hiding. And so, he taps the reply button and begins finally composing his response.

_Guest, I can’t say I wasn’t a little hurt when you dind’t show up. Not even an email telling me you were calling it off. I felt a bit of a fool actually, sitting in that coffee shop. I wished I hadn’t, I wish you’d shown up but, you didn’t and it is what it is. I hope it’s not something I did that made you stay away; I hope your excuse is a good one. You don’t have to tell me what it is, I-_

He backspaces several times and finds himself rewriting the exact same thing that he’d deleted. It feels like a plaster has been ripped off, that he can’t stop the stream of consciousness writing his fingers are tapping out. _I just wish you’d been there. I feel like I should tell you that I haven’t been this close to anyone recently. Which is totally crazy I understand because we’ve never met before but it almost feels as though we have, doesn’t it? I hope that one day we can meet because I think you’ve become someone who means something to me and that’s important. I think, anyway._

_Anyhow, today is overcast again, but I’m out enjoying a bit of sunlight after having been in work all morning. How are you? I very badly want to know._

Satisfied, he sends the email off into the ether, the tightness in his chest abating just a small bit as the phone makes a whooshing sound as the text disappears.

\---

Sherlock is in the middle of berating Lestrade’s entire forensic team when his phone pings with an email notification. He stops, mid-tirade, spins around and whips out his mobile. Even as Lestrade shouts at him to explain to them all what he means, Sherlock ignores it, opting instead to open his email to see what’s in store, hoping, desperately all the while.

It’s too terribly cliché to say that his heart leaps to his throat when he sees the email from John– _finally_ ; a response–but it’s a very near thing; his fingers shake as he moves to open the unread message.

He only reads it once before locking his mobile and slipping it back into his pocket. Equal parts elated and alternately melancholy at once again realizing how he’d hurt John, he returns to the crime scene and points out two different pieces of evidence that would have gone undiscovered if not for his attentions.

It’s a short time later that he’s ducking under the yellow tape and storming away in a swirl of coat, fresh evidence and possibly motives swirling in his brain; unbeknownst to him, Lestrade is following along behind him, and gets his attention once they’re a block away.

“Why are you following me?”

Lestrade shakes his head in a huff, tossing his hands up in resignation. “Not following. Just, you alright? Saw you pull out your phone and, well.”

Sherlock has absolutely no idea what Lestrade is getting at. “Well?” he asks, impatiently.

Lestrade grimaces, obviously as uncomfortable with this as Sherlock is. “Seems like you’re, I don’t know. If I didn’t know you, I’d say you were upset.”

Sherlock finds that avoidance is probably the best tactic at this point and as such he begins rattling off the most simple of deductions. “Your posture, the way your hands are balled up, tight in your pockets, Set of your brow. You’re anxious, you’re uncomfortable discussing this, so why bother? Leave me alone, Lestrade.” The last demand is a scathing sort of pity.

Lestrade huffs again and Sherlock turns to leave; before he can get even a step, he’s being caught around the bicep and tugged back around. “What the _hell_ are you doing?” Sherlock asks, scandalized.

“Look. Bear with me. Pretend this is quid pro quo. You ah, are allowed onto my crime scene and in return just… tell me how you _are_. I don’t want… any more of that nonsense. I don’t want to have to ask your brother.”

His head aches with the intensity of his eyeroll. “My brother,” comes Sherlock’s quiet mutter and then louder, “I assure you, I am clean.”

“Right, yeah, good. But if there’s anything else-“

“Oh for god’s sake, Lestrade.  I received an email I’d been waiting on for some time. I’m deciding how to proceed. That’s all.” Sherlock feels uncomfortable suddenly as though he’s given away too much; he feels quite hot around his collar, doesn’t like the way Lestrade’s eyes narrow and _look_ at him.

_See_ him.

It’s another moment of intense gazing before Lestrade speaks, voice casually even. “Related to the case?”

Sherlock hates the deception in his tone and knows that Lestrade is sussing it all out for himself. Greg Lestrade is smarter than he looks, Sherlock has always thought that, but he’s never let Lestrade onto that fact. He swallows thickly, wonders why he told Lestrade anything at all in the first place.

Damned email. _Damned_ email. “Not the case.”

It takes a moment but Lestrade’s eyes go a bit wide, damn it all to hell. “Oh. You mean. An email from someone that’s nothing to do with a case. That’s what, that’s why you’re all bent outta shape!” Lestrade says and laughs at his own deduction.

He’s been caught and rather than stutter out some semblance of a denial, he stands there and glares, willing Lestrade to simply wither and retreat. It would be pointless, the way Lestrade is looking at him; he looks as though Sherlock has just bestowed upon him a delightful gift.

This is sheer torture.

Sherlock waits for Lestrade’s reaction, waits to be needled for caring about something other than The Work. But as he waits, he takes in Lestrade’s demeanor, the quirk of his mouth, the set of his eyes, and finds that Lestrade is in fact not about to poke fun at him.

Lestrade is pleased.

“You’re pleased, why are you pleased?”

That question causes Lestrade smile to jump in a truly bizarre way, and he looks behind him, back at the crime scene as he shrugs. When he meets Sherlock’s gaze again, it’s soft and open and genuine and Sherlock feels so uncomfortable that he wishes he could combust on the spot. “Look, I know you don’t want to hear it but there are some of us that care about you.”

“Dear god-“

“And I,” Lestrade raises his voice in order to cut Sherlock off. “Think it’s great that you’re emailing someone that you actually look forward to getting emails from, you know?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow; there has to be a catch here. Lestrade wouldn’t just be _happy for him_.

“And if it’s someone that you’re that excited to receive a message from, well… that’s really nice, innit? How just a message can make you feel, you know, cheery.”

“I am _not_ cheery,” Sherlock grinds out.

“Nah, course not. Little googly eyed though, stopped right in the middle of your evisceration of Anderson to check that message. That’s something, I’d say.”

Sherlock heaves a sigh so dramatic that his shoulders roll and slump. “Is there a point to all this?”

“Right, you’re always such a dick about these things. Ive known you for ages, Sherlock. I’m your friend. If you’re happy, that makes me happy, as bollocks as that sounds. And if you need help with all of the _regular person_ ,” he pulls a face at Sherlock that very nearly makes Sherlock’s lips twitch in a smile, “stuff like… romantic stuff-“

“How would you ever know-“

“My divorce aside, I know how to make an impression, alright? I’ve done this before. I’ve done the whole bit, the online dating, the… the actual dating. Talking to people and all of that. If you need any advice.”

“Advice.”

“Yes.”

“From you.”

“Well, yeah.”

“From a man who has-for the past year and a half-carried a torch for a one Ms. Molly Hooper and have done nothing about it.”

“Bastard, is it that obvious?”

Sherlock does smile then, he can’t help it. Perhaps it’s because there’s no heat in Lestrade’s jab or perhaps it’s that he’s not embarrassed at all by having a crush on someone, but Sherlock feels distinctly touched by Lestrade’s haphazard attempt at offering assistance.

Two months ago Sherlock might have balked at it but now… after John…

“You are not entirely grotesque, nor insipid for that matter, though if anyone asked me if I made those claims I would outright _deny_ it… Molly Hooper is not a terrible choice. And the two of you would be… good.”

“Good? How do you know that.”

“Come now Lestrade, you know I don’t gossip.”

“Right, yeah. Right.” Lestrade grins then. “Well, should be getting back to my scene but, offer stands, if you want to get a pint, talk it out.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow once more and he looks to the building on his left and right before testing the words “Thank you?” on his tongue.

“Can’t imagine you drinking a pint,” Lestrade laughs, “But truth be told wouldn’t have imagined you thanking me for anything so. Night of surprises.”

Sherlock rucks his scarf up higher on his neck although the weather barely calls for it. “I do so endeavor to keep you on your toes.”

Lestrade laughs once and turns to walk away. “Maybe don’t be such a dick to whoever you’re chatting with. First bit of free advice for you. Next will cost you a pint. Or a finger of Lagavulin, I’m not picky.”

Sherlock watches him retreat for a bit and then turns on his heel and makes his way to the Tube. He prefers cabs but deducing the passengers in his carriage always helps him to calm his nerves and focus, and so he boards the Jubilee line at Kilburn and for a spell, zones out to the effluvia that the people of London carry on them.

He’s halfway home to Baker Street when he decides that he should stop by the morgue. This can’t possibly be as complicated as he’s making it out to be in his head. If ninety percent of the population can handle socializing, getting to know people, being… interested… he should be able to at least _see_ John.

And he wants to see John. Badly.

He goes through proper channels at the front desk, has security call down to Molly, knowing that it will give John ample time to steel himself. He wants to put the ball in John’s court, make John trust him again; he doesn’t want John to feel thrown off by his presence and hopes that the few short minutes it takes him to get downstairs are enough for John to steady himself.

He doesn’t even think about Molly until he’s breezing through the double doors. And then the issue of her knowing who John is, her knowing what their _issue_ is and John not knowing any of it barrels into him not unlike a freight train.

“Oh, hello Sherlock!” Molly says and he’s thankful for it, can tell that he’s wearing a bit of a deer-in-headlights look.

“Molly Hooper, I was just discussing you, believe it or not.” It’s low, and he knows it, but he can’t risk her interfering with his suddenly-concocted, brilliant plan. 

“Oh,” she smoothes her hair back from her face. “Were you?”

“I was, with-“ And it’s that moment that John rounds the corner and instead of stopping short and serving him a glare, gives Sherlock a nod of acknowledgement. “John Watson. I mean. Not with John Watson, hello, John.” Sherlock clears his throat, turns his attention back to Molly. “Greg Lestrade sends his greetings.”

She colors immediately, ducking her head and turning away. “Oh. Greg. That’s nice.”

“Yes, nice,” Sherlock says and glances briefly to John, whose face as taken on a soft smile.

“That police fellow?” John asks, addressing both of them equally.

Molly gives a squeaky little giggle and zips up the body she’d been working on. “Yep. I. Uhm. Need to get Mr. Jacobi here back in the drawer and, yep, I…” She leans down and pushes, scurrying away surprisingly fast with the gurney, through the doors towards the refrigeration unit.

“That was…” John begins.

“Piteous?”

John gives a little laugh of his own. “Cute. And you, being the bearer of _good_ news.”

“Yes, well. Can’t be doom and gloom all of the time.”

“Suppose not,” John concedes, and they watch one another carefully for a moment. “Listen,” he begins, placing a hand down on the stainless steel worktop. “Two nights ago, I was incredibly… just, I was a bastard. I feel like you and I keep getting off on the wrong foot and I don’t want that. I actually, ah, really don’t want that. I had, with you, working on that case. It was maybe the best time since I’ve gotten back and. Hah. This is a bit harder than I expected, the uh, apologizing, sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Sherlock says, softly. “And you certainly don’t need to apologize for apologizing.”

“Well… I want to. Fact is, I was waiting for someone and they were… they didn’t show up.” John shrugs. “I was upset about it and rude to you and that’s not how I would have liked to be.”

“How would you have liked to be?”

“Not…” John begins and then shakes his head as though he can’t believe the absurdity of it all.  “A dick.”

“I wouldn’t have called you a dick.” Sherlock doesn’t know what he’s saying, but his heart is beating very, very fast, and he can’t stop the words that fly from his mouth. “People don’t usually take kindly to me. Even what you consider to be acting like “a dick,” that’s quite a change from the way people usually treat me.”

“Mmmmyeah,” John says, a teasing smile turning his mouth. “But you invite a lot of that, don’t you?”

Sherlock smiles too, “I suppose.”

“Yeah,” John sighs, bringing his palms to the front of his hips. “Well. Point is, I apologize. Let’s start over? For… the third time?”

And Sherlock means it when he says, “There’s nothing I’d like more.” John grins, nods and goes to turn away but Sherlock stops him with a sudden, “Perhaps you’d like to get dinner this evening. I know a good Chinese place. Or Indian. Or… Thai. Whatever you’d like.”

John’s brow furrows and he licks his lips; Sherlock can’t help but watch his tongue. God, what has he _become_? “Dinner would be…” It kills Sherlock when John pauses to consider. “Yeah, alright.”

He doesn’t blow out the relieved breath that he wants to, instead simply nodding and taking a step back. “Splendid.”

“But I get to pick, you picked last time.”

“That’s fair.”

John nods and the begins reaching into his lab coat pocket, abandoning the gesture halfway to walk into Molly’s office. When he returns, he has his mobile in his hand. “I need to clean up here and then, well, clean up in general. Why don’t you give me your number and I’ll text you the address where we should meet?”

Sherlock’s mouth goes dry, and he doesn't even think to be critical of the fact that he's texted John before, and that John should already have his number.

John Watson is _asking_ for his phone number and he feels all of thirteen years old. “That’d be fine,” Sherlock manages to croak and then gives John his number.

“Good. Yeah. So… I’ll text you,” John says, going about packing away the body he’d been working on, only lifting his eyes from his task to seek Sherlock’s confirmation.

“Yes, good.”

And with that, John gives a half smile and wheels his body back towards the refrigerators. Sherlock is left standing in the morgue, staring at the place John had left, wondering how he’d managed to ask him to dinner so easily.

It had been so _easy_.

Moments later Molly reappears, her blush having subsided considerably. She stops short when she sees Sherlock and his expression. “Oh no,” she attempts a whisper. “Did you two argue _again_?”

Sherlock blinks at the floor and then turns his gaze upon Molly. “I just asked him to dinner, naturally.”

“He said no?” she cringes almost comically, her hands going to her mouth in horror.

“Quite the opposite,” he breathes. “He asked for my number.”

The screech that Molly emits is very nearly the same sound Sherlock had heard in his head when John had asked for his number; still, it’s annoying. “Stop that,” he barks.

Molly rolls her eyes at his rude outburst and makes towards her office. “Just don’t call him an idiot,” she mock whispers. “You’ll be fine. He thinks you’re quite fit!” And with that she disappears into her office.

It takes a moment for her words to sink in.

“He thinks I’m what?!”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This is…” he sighs, glancing at all of the people in the park, at the couples strolling happily along hand in hand, at the pairs and groups of friends chatting and laughing. “Am I the only one who doesn’t understand this?”
> 
> Redbeard bumps his nose into Sherlock’s knee and Sherlock glances down, muttering, “I’ve never…understood this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to [Allison](http://stars-inthe-sky.tumblr.com) for her assistance on this very, very overdue chapter.

Sherlock returns to Baker Street, itching to speak of his evening plans aloud, just to get his thoughts in order. It’s an odd feeling; generally, he talks to himself, sorts himself out eventually. But at the moment, he needs someone to speak _to_. Naturally, Redbeard is more than willing to lend an unjudging ear; he’s not human, but he’ll do.  
  
Sherlock gets the leash out and Redbeard is at his side, ducking his head so Sherlock can clip it to his collar. Sometimes, Sherlock thinks that his dog may be too smart for his own good, but considering he’s the one who owns the dog...well.  
  
It’s a sunny, balmy late afternoon as they walk among the tourists in Regent’s Park, the dog keeping to Sherlock’s right, uninterested in the birds or the passersby who speak to him in disgusting childish voices. It seems as though Redbeard knows his owner needs him, and he keeps close by until Sherlock begins to speak.

It takes them one long circuit around the walking path before Sherlock breaks the silence. “I’ve no idea why I asked him to dinner. It’s too _intimate_ ,” he says, as though he and the dog have been having a conversation all the while. Sherlock screws his mouth into a thoughtful twist, lets Redbeard’s lead out a bit longer. “And then he takes my mobile number…assumes that he’ll…”

Sherlock stops on the pathway. “That’s good, isn’t it? Taking my number, wanting it. Proves that he’s…interested? That he wants this to continue? Perhaps I’m not as off-putting as I’d once thought.” Sherlock stops walking abruptly, narrows his eyes, thinks about John’s motives. He certainly doesn’t want to second-guess John; John’s proven himself to be honest and upstanding, but Sherlock can’t help wonder what John could possibly want from him.

It disquiets Sherlock’s mind, that he can’t suss it out.  
  
They begin walking again.

“What shall I do if he chooses a ridiculous restaurant? What if he chooses someplace—no, he won’t. John will choose somewhere warm and comfortable, because he’s warm and—no he’s not, he’s strong and willful and—but why can’t he be both of those things?” For a moment, Sherlock doesn’t realize that Redbeard is attempting to tug him closer to a tree.

“Ah, right, sorry.” He allows the dog to do his business but stares straight ahead at nothing as he continues. “Furthermore, John’s taking the lead of the situation insinuates that there’s a reason for him to take the upper hand, no? Or, alternately, perhaps he wants to be in charge, perhaps that means that with men he—wait, no, that’s not, no.”  
  
Sherlock huffs out an annoyed laugh at himself. “No.”

Redbeard gets bored of his waffling and tugs him back towards the pavement, and Sherlock goes willingly, almost as if the dog is walking him. They continue trotting down the path, around the lake.  
  
Sherlock imagines John Watson taking him to a fish-and-chips joint, of watching John sucking the grease off of his fingers; he imagines them sharing Mongolian beef, their chopsticks bumping. Sherlock imagines their eyes meeting over wine glasses, by candlelight. He can’t decide which image he likes the best. He can’t decide which situation he most wants to see John Watson _in_.

But he’s getting ahead of himself, allowing his mind to spiral out of control. He has to get through _this_ evening, first.  
  
“I suppose I should be happy that he’ll be choosing the place; I can’t imagine what I’d do if he didn’t like the food at Mr. Chan’s. I’d be devastated. But that means that I care what he thinks about the things I like,” Sherlock stops again, as though the notion has caused his legs to cease functioning.

“This is…” he sighs, glancing at all of the people in the park, at the couples strolling happily along hand in hand, at the pairs and groups of friends chatting and laughing. “Am I the only one who doesn’t understand this?”

Redbeard bumps his nose into Sherlock’s knee and Sherlock glances down, muttering, “I’ve never…understood this.”

The dog nudges into him again and Sherlock nods, “That’s right,” Sherlock bends to run things fingers over Redbeard’s ears. “At least he thinks I’m fit.”

Sherlock returns home, debates changing his clothing and decides against it; he doesn’t want to seem too eager or make it seem like this is…a date. But is it a date? Surely it isn’t a date, because John had been very clear when he’d said he wanted to start over. And that meant as friends, didn’t it?

Sherlock could work with “friends.” He could ease his way into John’s life, become indispensable, and then, perhaps, after some time…

But no, that too seems like a lie. He’d need to work out how to reveal to John that he had, all along, been chatting as Guest. But perhaps tonight wasn’t the night; perhaps tonight could truly be about two people starting over, sharing a meal, getting to know one another.

Turning his face this way and that, he tries to understand the ways in which John thinks he’s attractive. Sherlock isn’t a terribly vain man, or perhaps just a little; he knows the effect he has on men and women alike. He knows how to “turn it on.” But he can’t for the life of him figure out what a man like _John_ would see in him. John is _good_ and intelligent, kind and strong and quick-witted and…fit, too. John is not the sort of person that takes to the kind of person that Sherlock is.

So _why_?  
  
He’s ruminating on that matter when he remembers that he never responded to John’s earlier email. In his haste to pull his mobile from his pocket, he bungles it and sends the device skittering across the sitting room floor. Once he retrieves it, he immediately unlocks it, and pulls up the email to reply.

 _John_ , he begins. _I went for a walk myself, today, just now, with Redbeard. It’s so interesting to be in a world among people, filled with people, overflowing with people and somehow be able to feel so entirely alone. Not in a lonely way, simply solitary. That’s why I enjoy walking amongst the bustle of London. No one will notice you from the next person unless they’re looking._

Sherlock’s thumbs pause as he wonders how to advance the conversation. _There was an interesting turn to my day, and I believe that I assisted the proper authorities in locating a few pieces of key evidence in a case. Goes to show you that even trained investigators may not notice something even when they_ are _looking for it. I suppose that proves that people are fallible but I prefer not to dwell too deeply on such matters. It’s much easier to find someone an idiot so long as you don’t delve too much into their life._

 _But that’s just it, isn’t it? In order to make connections, in order to have relationships, someone has to do the delving. I’m glad that you and I are doing that._  
  
_You’ve come to mean something to me, too._ Sherlock swallows hard as he types that, screws his eyes shut and wills himself _not_ to delete the words; they’re the truth. _It is, unquestionably, important._

Sherlock sends it, cringing down at his mobile even as he taps at the button. He’s given more of himself away in the email than he feels he ever has to anyone. It is—in turns—terrifying and gratifying, as though he can finally breathe deeply after years or taking mere sips of air.

\---  
  
John texts him at six o’clock, just around the time that Sherlock begins to fret that he’s the one being “stood up”: _How do you feel about tapas?_

Sherlock goggles at the text; tapas is a meal to _share_. John has deliberately chosen a meal in which they’ll have to negotiate the plates, agree on what they’re going to order. Isn’t that…interesting.

 _That sounds fine. When and where?_ Sherlock takes the moment while John is typing his response to save John’s number in his phone. He takes great relish in pressing the ‘Save’ button when he’s through inputting John Watson’s name.

A response comes a moment later. _Soho? Unless that’s too posh? Place called Angelo’s. Molly suggested it._

And Sherlock releases a guffaw of a laugh, both at Molly’s boldness and John’s apparent hesitation to take him there. _Tapas in Soho it is. Would meeting in an hour work?_ Sherlock responds.  
  
_An hour is fine. See you then._

Sherlock feels a shiver of anticipation run down his spine and he tosses on his coat before he remembers he needs to feed Redbeard. He’s getting ahead of himself, he realizes, too excited about the prospect of going to dinner with John. Once he’s filled the dog’s bowl, he washes his hands, retreats to his bedroom to apply just a touch of his seldom-used but preferred cologne.

With that, he leaves Baker Street and hails a cab, eager to get to Soho, and realizes belatedly that he likely should have let John know that he’s acquaintances with the proprietor of the establishment.

Sherlock fiddles with his phone, notices a new text message from Lestrade: _Do you ever check your bloddy email? Tell me what you think!_ And then another, _*Bloody, obviously. Don’t want you starting in on my damned spelling the next time I see you._

Sherlock huffs a near laugh and opens his email. There are three messages from Lestrade from four hours ago. He’s about to open them but scans the rest of new mail in his inbox instead.

There’s one from John, in response to his earlier message. It’s unlike anything else, the feeling that rushes over Sherlock every time there’s a _new message_ from John.

 _You know, I’m going to dinner this evening with a friend. A new friend maybe. I don’t know what he is, but I’m going to dinner with him. Some place nice (I think?). And I feel like I have you to thank for that. I don’t know that I would have been open enough to go and meet someone and talk with them and have a meal if you and I hadn’t begun talking. Emailing. Whatever. But, in the interest of being honest, and just because I feel like you deserve to know, I’ll be having dinner with this friend and thinking of how coffee would have gone between you and I._  
  
_Anyway, we’re going to tapas, which seems an insane choice right now. Because you have to share. What if he doesn’t like prawns? What if we can’t decide on wine? Are you supposed to split a bottle of wine if it isn’t a date?_  
  
_I thought I was ready for this but perhaps I’m not. If I can’t even decide if I should order wine._

_I hope you’re having a good evening. Anything interesting you need medical assistance with? sincerely hope to hear from you soon._

Sherlock gapes; for a moment he feels as though time has stopped entirely. John’s nervous about meeting him. John’s wondering what it would have been like getting coffee with Sherlock. John is interested in both pieces, in both…halves? No, that sounds too trite.

John is interested in Sherlock.

Full stop.

And John doesn’t even know…

\---  
  
John is already seated when Sherlock arrives, making it impossible for him to explain about Angelo. He stands out on the pavement, just on the curb, and watches John fiddle with the complimentary breadsticks; he puts one on his plate, brings his hands to his lip and then brings his hands back to the breadstick and breaks it in half.  
  
It’s…ridiculous.

But it makes Sherlock smile. And in that moment, he realizes that he’s standing on the pavement like a lovestruck teenager, _gazing_ at a man he’s about to have dinner with. It’s entirely preposterous, trite and stupid.  
  
It’s incredible.

He pushes his way through the pedestrian cross traffic and through the door. It’s a moment before John sees him, but when he does, he raises a hand. Is it Sherlock’s imagination or does John make to get up and greet him, as he might a date?

“Ah, John,” Sherlock says, because he doesn’t know what at all else to say.

“Hi, hope this is—”

“I know the proprietor!” Sherlock blurts as he slides across from John at the table. Then, he remembers he’s still in his coat and can’t decide whether to just leave it on or get up and take it off; he doesn’t want to cause a scene.

John shakes his head a bit and lifts his hands to the table as Sherlock struggles out of his coat. “You. Know the proprietor?” John isn’t upset; he has a small smile on his face. “How do you know the proprietor?”

“I…” Sherlock begins, and he can’t stop the tide of words that escape his mouth. “I got him off of a murder charge and—”

“A murder charge?!” John interjects.

It’s at that moment that Angelo sweeps in on the table, arms open and smile wide. “Sherlock! So good to see you again! Didn’t know that this handsome gentleman was waiting for you!”

John blushes, Sherlock just catches it out of the corner of his eye. “It’s not—”

“This man saved me from a murder charge!” Angelo booms.

John emits one chuckle. “Hah, yeah, he was just telling me. How’d he manage that?”

“Three years ago I successfully proved at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking.” John smiles at him, first with his eyes, then at his whole face.

Angelo smiles at the both of them, “As always, whatever you want, on the house, for you and your date.”

John opens his mouth to reply but by then Angelo has disappeared. “Guess that makes divvying up the check easier,” John jests and Sherlock gives him a shocked half smile. He would have expected John to make it plain that they’re not here on a date, but it seems that John is full of surprises.

How wonderful.

“Indeed. I’m glad Molly made this suggestion. I haven’t eaten here in ages.” Sherlock mentions, his thumbnail flicking at the edge of his menu.

John picks up his own—obviously for something to do, he’s clearly looked at it already—and runs his tongue along his lower lip. “Why’s that?”

“Mmm,” Sherlock glances out the window, at the people walking by, does his very best not to deduce their lives. “Not someplace one would generally come alone.”

“Oh.” And it’s apparent that he’s made his point rather plain; Sherlock doesn’t date. He needs John to know that.

“The last time I was here I was with my brother,” he mentions off-hand, then is pulled up short by the fact that he’s mentioned his brother so willingly. “It was…unbearable.”

John leans back against his booth and takes a sip of his water. “I know that story,” he mentions, good-naturedly, but a touch annoyed. Sherlock glances back at him at that, and they both share a half smile.

“How did you solve that one?”

Sherlock blinks, eyes focused on the sweet tilt of John’s mouth. “Well, it was a simple matter of surveillance video and an earring that was left at the scene.”

John gives him a nod, as though telling him to go on, and so he does. He holds nothing back, detailing the ins and outs of the case. It had barely ranked a six for him, but the way John pays attention, interjects “Amazing!” and “Fantastic!” as Sherlock tells his tale.

After a bit, Angelo just appears, a bottle of wine in one hand and a plate of olives in the other. “Thought this vintage might suit,” he suggests and, rather than pouring for either of them, be leaves the bottle in front of Sherlock’s plate setting. “You boys want to try some of the house specialties?”

Sherlock raises a brow at John and John just shrugs. “Yeah, that sounds...yeah.”

“Fantastic!” Angelo booms and then he’s gone, leaving the two with the bottle of wine, sharing an amused expression. Sherlock does the honors, pouring out the tempranillo expertly and raising his glass to John’s in a light toast.

Casually, he takes a sip, and then his eyes widen at the glass. “That…is actually the best wine I’ve ever had,” John takes another sip, savoring it, and then leans back against his seat, smiles. “All of that deducing, knowing what people are, who they are, it’s fascinating. Must be a helpful skill to have.”

“It is,” Sherlock confirms and sips from his own wine; it’s really quite superb.

There’s comfortable silence, during which John picks up an olive and pops it into his mouth. When he’s finished chewing, he clears his throat and swirls the wine in his glass. “Do you see things about me?” John asks, his eyes bright and questioning.  
  
And Sherlock is about to tell John _everything_ , he really is, but it strikes him that perhaps that isn’t the best thing to do. Not now. Not with John. “I…” he takes a breath; how do people speak about these things? “I’d rather hear it from you, about you.” It’s something he knows he should say, even though he can read John’s family history, the history of his schooling, what brand of crisps he prefers just from _looking_. But Sherlock knows that this is something that people say. To sound genuine. To sound interested and engaged.

And Sherlock is, without a doubt, interested.

It feels entirely phony to him.

“Oh, uh, I…” John begins and then Sherlock cuts him off, gently, unlike he normally might.

“John, please keep in mind that while I’m asking you about yourself, I’m only doing so because I believe it would be inappropriate for me to—”

“But inappropriate is okay,” John interjects. “I…didn’t mean it like that,” John laughs, hiding his mouth behind his wine glass and cringing.

“Your phone, it’s a hand-me-down. Harry Watson, from Clara, on that back there. Your brother is an alcoholic; every night he goes to plug it in to charge, but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man’s phone; never see a drunk’s without them. Not top-of-the line but you kept it, which means you’re not doing well financially which is, I didn’t mean—”

“No,” John says, face unreadable. “Go on.”  
  
“You’re not sleeping well, knowing that and knowing that you’ve kept that phone, took a job in the morgue when you’re clearly more qualified…you must not enjoy the place you’re living. I could go on, but.” Sherlock sigh and looks down into his wine glass, finds that he’s nervous for John’s reaction.

“Incredible,” John says, in a strangely breathly way.

“What?” His head snaps up, and he makes eye contact with a smiling John.

“Brilliant, really.”  
  
Sherlock blinks, glances out the window and then back across the restaurant. He’s never felt so entirely out of his element . “Yes, well…” And then he’s at a complete and utter loss for words. This never happens to him and he begins to panic, throat seizing up, palms itching.

“Though Harry is my sister,” John mentions, offhand and Sherlock can feel his face tightening.

“Your sister?”

John smiles at him, a secretive little thing, and Sherlock thinks it’s important, John’s pointing that out, that his sister was dating a woman. But why? Why does he want Sherlock to know that?  
  
“Mmm, she’s gay,” John confirms aloud and watches for Sherlock’s reaction. “Still, brilliant deduction, my sister _is_ a drinker.”

And again, Sherlock has no earthly idea what to say; it’s an entirely fascinating and enraging feeling.

Luckily, a waiter arrives with a bevy of dishes and begins setting them down. Sherlock keeps his gaze on the plates being set down and John keeps his gaze set on him.

John eats and Sherlock picks; the food is delicious but he finds he’s not terribly hungry, just going through the motions of eating, picking at this and that. But it’s quite something, the tiny, hot thrill that runs through him every time John reaches across the small table to take something from a shared plate.

“How long have you been in London?” John asks, and Sherlock finds himself answering, finding that he’s shocked that this sort of small talk doesn’t feel trite at all. Sherlock asks the same and they both begin sharing What either of them enjoys so much about the city. Sherlock realizes that he may be giving too much of himself as Guest away.

It feels like it’s just a short while before they’re both pushing back, placing their napkins up on the table and pouring out the rest of the wine. “Well, that was…” John says, folding his hands atop the table.  
  
“Angelo never disappoints,” Sherlock affirms and takes a sip from his rapidly emptying glass. He feels the buzz of the wine, the heat of it filling his limbs, and he finds himself wondering what qualifies a “dinner out” as a “date.” Because Sherlock thinks that this may be veering very close to date territory.

It shouldn’t matter but it _does_ , and Sherlock finds his mind a little buoyant and floaty. From the alcohol, of course.  
  
“That’s good to know,” John says and then laughs, leaning forward on the table, the candlelight flickering in his open gaze. “Look, I’m uh, I’m glad that we worked this out, and…”

“Would you like to come on another case with me?” Sherlock interrupts, and rather loudly too—several of the tables surrounding them turn to glance over.

But John, dependable, intelligent, strong, handsome, perfect John Watson just says, “Yes,” with a definitive nod of his head, and Sherlock feels the air punched straight out of his lungs.

  



	13. Chapter 13

The feeling lingers in John’s bones. He carries the light, buoyant fizziness right into the weekend, wakes up Saturday morning refreshed and happy and very nearly giddy. He’d had dinner with Sherlock and it had been absolutely lovely, so lovely that for the duration he’d forgotten about Guest, about his problems, about how completely and utterly different he and Sherlock were. Or, complementary, to put it an entirely different way, he supposes.  
  
He rolls from bed, stretches, and decides on a whim to don his running clothes and go for a jog. John doesn’t plan it, just grabs his keys and phone and heads out into the surprisingly bright London day.  
  
He wonders briefly if he’s somehow suffering a rose-tinted view, if he can truly be _this_ happy, just from a dinner. Just from the prospect of dashing about London with Sherlock, adrenaline pumping through his veins. God, he _hopes_.  
  
For a while, John zones out to The Clash, running and walking intermittently along the South Bank, casually taking in the sights. It’s only when he stops for a breath that he thinks about Guest, allows a dull, hollow sort of guilt to creep from his stomach to his throat.  
  
He shouldn’t feel guilty for making a new friend in Sherlock. He shouldn’t feel like he’s somehow doing Guest a disservice, but he does. He feels like he’s _cheating_ on him. He knows it’s completely ridiculous, but he can’t stave the feeling that he’s done something disingenuous. John slows to a jog as he mulls it over. 

Unfortunately, outside of actually meeting Guest and seeing where it goes (and what is _it_ , he wonders?) there’s nothing to be done. He shouldn’t feel upset for being excited to see Sherlock again because Sherlock, at the very least, has shown up. John feels for a moment how entirely underwhelming that fact is, how depressing that showing up is the bar he’s set for himself.  
  
He picks up a takeaway sandwich from the coffee shop on the corner and has a shower and a shave before he even thinks about opening his email. The task doesn’t seem as pressing as it once did to him, and he weighs that, too. Is Guest beginning to lose his allure? Is he thinking too much on Sherlock? Should he be thinking _more_ on Guest?  
  
It’s very nearly unbearable, the ping-ponging of emotions that he’s experiencing, the juxtaposed thoughts. He consciously makes an effort and banishes them, sitting down hard in front of his laptop. Perhaps it will be easier to suss out exactly what he wants to do about this–if anything at all–if he actually talks to Guest.  
  
It’s easy for Sherlock to take over his thoughts; he’s just had a very nice dinner with him only days ago. And the promise of assisting on another case has lifted John’s spirits exponentially. Sherlock is fascinating, for lack of a better word; he’s danger and intrigue and John doesn’t quite understand him, and that’s appealing. But he misses his interactions with Guest, the rapid-fire wit, the strange questions, the black humor.  
  
He imagines, briefly, an amalgamation of the two men; it’s only a moment before he realizes how ridiculous he’s being, imagining the best aspects of both to create the perfect man. John laughs to himself–albeit bitterly–and boots up his laptop. 

And there’s an email waiting for him. John feels almost as though he’s divined it through sheer will, though he knows he hasn’t. Still, the giddy little thrill that races through him feels no less justified than it had the first time he’d felt this way.  
  
John cracks his knuckles, takes a quick little sip from his water bottle, and opens the email.  
  
\---  
  
_John, I need information about digitalis. For instance, would it be possible for a person who has been using digitalis to treat heart issues to overdose easily? Let me know at your earliest convenience._  
  
_I trust that your dinner the other evening went well?_  
  
John smiles; digitalis. How strange. What a strange life Guest must lead, he muses for the umpteenth time. He finds himself just as drawn to that fact as he was from the start, and before he knows it, his fingers are flying across the keyboard. He’s missed this more than he’d thought, he realizes. He’s missed the simplicity with which they communicated, he missed speculating on what Guest was doing, where he was sitting, what he looked like in the dim glow of his laptop. He’s missed _Guest_ , full stop.

 _I don’t know much about digitalis aside from that it’s fairly strictly regulated and it’s not used as frequently as it used to be. It’s used most by elderly patients because it treats heart failure. If your victim has a prescription for it, they must have a specialized condition and would have been instructed on how to use it. If it’s a young person you’re looking at they probably had a pretty debilitating heart condition._  
  
_Dinner actually went really well. I had a great time and the food was fantastic and we ended up being given a bottle of wine (long story :D) by the ownder of the establishment. I’d recommend the place to you, but I don’t know if that’s overstepping any bounds._  
  
And seconds later–Guest must be sitting at his own computer, in his own home, right here in London at this very moment–John received an email in return.  
  
_I’d be interested to know the name of the establishment where you dined; I’m always looking for new and intriguing restaurants. When I do deign to eat, I appreciate a well-crafted dish._

 _Victim was young, thirty-five, dead of overdose._  
  
\---  
  
_That’s a lot of information you’ve given me; I could probably google the victim, you know. ;) Dead of overdose at 35 of medicine he’s been prescribed for how long? To me, that sounds suspicious._  
  
_It’s called Angelo’s in Soho. Posh as anything but worth it in my opinion. Incredible wine, but then I don’t know much about wine._  
  
\---  
  
_Unsure of how long he’s been taking it._  
  
_I’ve heard of Angelo’s, I hear the food is fantastic. As for wines, I know rather a lot. If the wine list is purported to be good, I’ll be the judge of that._  
  
\---  
  
_Still seems strange to me. Maybe let me know more when you find out more?_

 _Berk, of course you know wine; you seem to me to be a very posh sort. Not in a bad way, just posh._  
  
_I can’t say much about tapas but the patatas bravas was probably the best I’ve had. And the eggplant was increidble. One of the best meals I’ve had in some time, have to say._  
  
\---  
  
_I shall endeavor to fill you in._  
  
_Are you not interested in the posh sort, then?_  
  
_And the company was adequate?_

\---  
  
_More than adequate, really, if I’m being honest. Just don’t know what’s hpapening with all of that. You ever find yourself entirely confused about how to interact with a certain person? It’s frustrating and exciting and yeah confusing but it’s all a bit fun too, right?_  
  
_I don’t know. I want to talk with you about it and I don’t because I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. And I’m fine with the posh sort. Maybe the posh sort can teach me about wine._  
  
\---  
  
_John, I don’t generally strive to interact amicably with anyone, though I do know what you’re referring to._  
_Do you believe your… how did you describe him, friend?, feels the same way? I’ve looked up Angelo’s and the photographs make it appear a rather intimate place, no? Did you choose the restaurant, if so, I’m sure there’s something telling in that. ___  
  
\---  
  
_Oh god, does it? A friend recommended it and I had no idea. But I guess that’s not such a bad thing, if there’s something telling about it. I just don’t know. I guess it’s like riding a bike, yeah? Figuring all of this out again? If I ask someone on a date, I know what I’m doing, I’m confident but it’s a bit like I stumbled into this sideways._  
  
\---  
  
_Often times, stumbling into something sideways can be a pleasant surprise. Or so I’m told. I don’t date, or, not-date, as your case may or may not be._

 _Do you want there to be something telling about it, John?_  
  
\---  
  
_maybe, I feel strange talking to you about this because I do. I do want there to be something telling about it but I also don’t want to go out on a limb with this person if I’ve never emt you. Does that make sense? I feel like maybe we should meet one another for real and see._  
  
_I sincerely hope that wasn’t going out on a limb, still wanting to meet you and all. I just feel like maybe there’s something ehre._  
  
\---  
  
_You want to meet Guest in order to rule him out as a potential suitor?_  
  
\---  
  
_Weird, seeing you refer to yourself in the third person but I guess it’s not the third person since I don’t know your name. And no I want to know if all of this that I’m feeling about everything our online interaction, the disappointment at not meeting you the first time, the anticipation of meeting you for real means anything. I think we should give ourselves that opportunity. Unless you don’t want to._  
  
_But I hope that you want to._  
  
\---  
  
_I’m terribly sure that I’ll be a disappointment to you, John. ___  
  
\---  
  
_How about letting me figure that out for myself._  
  
\---  
  
_I shall be indisposed for some time, truly and unfortunately. What about meeting on the second Saturday in May? There’s a spot in Regent’s Park, a bend in the path near Triton Fountain, next to a bed of orange tulips. There, at noon._  
  
\---  
  
_I look forward to it. :D More than you know._  
  
\---  
  
_You shouldn’t._  
  
_I must say, while I detest the appearance of them from anyone else, I’ve missed your usage of your faces in your emails._  
  
\---

_Good. :-) :-)_

\--- 

_That was too many. You’ve put me off of them again._

__\---_ _

_:-P_

__\---_ _

John is just getting ready to head home on Tuesday evening when Sherlock, with his apparent trademark flair for the dramatic, bursts through the double doors. John doesn’t even startle, just quirks a brow and crosses his arms over his chest. 

"John!” 

__John finds his lips curling into a smile, his cheeks warming. It’s as though he’s gone ages without seeing the one thing he wishes to set his sights on, and the acknowledgement of that fact embarrasses him. Sherlock looks windswept, cheeks pink, hair chaotic; it’s quite a sight._ _

__It makes John’s heart race._ _

__“Sherlock.”_ _

__“I require your assistance,” comes his demand, as he sweeps his fringe out of his eyes and stares John down in a distinctly unsettling manner. It’s as though John doesn’t have a choice. Whether it’s Sherlock’s insistence or John’s own inner desire to accompany Sherlock, John isn’t quite sure._ _

__John licks his lips, considers; he doesn’t want to seem overly eager. “With?”_ _

__“There’s been another suicide; I need your opinion.”_ _

__“You _need_ my opinion,” John teases, even as he shucks his lab coat and begins tidying his work area._ _

__Behind him, he hears Sherlock sigh. “I would _like_ you opinion. I would value… your assistance.”_ _

__John turns, schools his face into a blank mask and crosses his arms over his chest as though he’s still considering it, as though he hasn’t already made up his mind. “Yeah,” John says after a long, tense moment, and he can see Sherlock visibly relax. “Alright.”_ _

__And then they’re dashing out into London at rush hour and John feels incredibly, incendiary, entirely and wholly alive. Sherlock hails a cab and they get out to Ealing with relatively little trouble, though the constant rain that they’ve been inundated with the past few days begins to pick up; John finds himself gazing out the window, enchanted by the way the lights catch in the raindrops that have spattered on the glass._ _

__The colors seem brighter, somehow._ _

__Sherlock spends the entire ride in silence on his phone and John watches him surreptitiously, admiring his elegant fingers and the slant of his nose. Before he knows it, Sherlock is paying the fare and bounding from the vehicle and John is following closely behind, ducking under the police tape and entering the abandoned flat that serves as the crime scene._ _

__Upon entering, there’s a flurry of activity. Technicians in blue crime scene jumpsuits are bagging and taking photographs of evidence, there are police taking statements from the teenagers that found the body, and a silver-haired man walks up to them, the line of his mouth set grimly._ _

__“Sherlock, thanks for coming,” and John notices that the man makes no effort to shake Sherlock’s hand or greet him otherwise._ _

__“Detective Inspector,” Sherlock says by way of greeting, his attention everywhere but on the detective. “Where’s the body?”_ _

__“Second level, you’ll have to put on a jumpsuit. Who’s this?” The DI holds out a square of blue fabric to Sherlock, but Sherlock bounds up the steps without sparing it a glance. Swearing under his breath, theDI follows and John, confused, pulls up the rear._ _

__By the time he makes it to the top of the steps, the DI is hastily pulling on cotton booties over his shoes and entering the fluorescent-lit room. “You’ll have to put on one of those if you want to come in,” he tosses over his shoulder with a put-upon sigh and John turns to the large cardboard box on the floor, filled with jumpsuits. He struggles into one, slings on the booties and pushes into the room through the partially-closed door._ _

__“Right, now, _who_ are you, again?” The DI asks of John, while keeping his eyes on Sherlock, who is taking his time in pacing the room. _ _

__“John Watson,” Sherlock says off-handedly before John can get a word out, although he wasn’t the one asked, as he bends down to look at the body. And then he realizes his mistake. “ _Doctor_ John Watson, he’s here to assist me. John Watson, Detective Inspector Gordon Lestrade.”_ _

__“It’s Greg, you dick,” he says and offers John his hand; they share a hearty shake. And then Lestrade’s eyes light, as though something has dawned on him. “Oh,” he says, tone a bit cheeky. “John from the morgue?”_ _

__Sherlock stands suddenly and wheels on Lestrade. “Doctor Watson is here to assist me on this case as your team seems to be entirely unable to do so. You need me here, I need Doctor Watson here.”_ _

__Something races down John’s spine, something akin to deja vu, but he ignores it, instead looking between the two men._ _

__Lestrade purses his lips, but the light doesn’t leave his eyes and John finds himself wondering exactly what is going on here. “Right, yes,” he cuts in, and they both turn to look at him. “The uh, dead body. Shall I…”_ _

__“By all means,” Lestrade says with mirth and a sweeping wave of his hand._ _

__They both go to their knees on either side of the body and John makes eye contact with Sherlock briefly before assessing it. “Uh, asphyxiation probably. Passed out, choked on his own vomit. Can’t smell any alcohol on him, could have been a seizure, possibly drugs.”_ _

__Sherlock’s voice dips, low, gravelly. “You know what it was, you read the papers. Like before.”_ _

__“This is a… like in Brixton? Another suicide?”_ _

__

__Lestrade gives a little sigh. “Going to have to have Dimmock transfer the paperwork from that case two weeks ago. Christ this is a mess, working with him is, jesus.”_ _

__“So they’re related?” John asks of both Sherlock and Lestrade._ _

__“I would say so, wouldn’t you, Doctor? You saw the previous body.” Sherlock meets his gaze and holds it. They stare at one another for a moment, John watching as the corner of Sherlock’s lip tips up, just so._ _

__“Wait, he came with you the other scene? Sherlock, you know I can get into enough trouble letting _you_ in and-”_ _

__“Last time was under Dimmock’s purview,” Sherlock reminds him harshly. “It was fine.”_ _

__“Jesus christ with chopsticks,” Lestrade mutters to himself, about to pull his latex-clad hand down over his face before thinking better of it. “Right. So. Related.”_ _

__Sherlock glances at John, gaze cool and sharp. “Doctor?”_ _

__John swallows,–he’s becoming a bit overwhelmed at Sherlock referring to him as Doctor– licks at his bottom lip and gives Sherlock a minute nod. “These definitely seem related to me. Seems you have serial suicides on your hands.”_ _

__“God, don’t say that, it’s like in the papers, it’s not _possible_ ,” Lestrade groans and closes his eyes. “Right, all right. As soon as we identify the victim we can try and figure out whether he knew Jennifer Wilson or…” Lestrade trailed off, his eyes popping back open. “You don’t care about any of this,” Lestrade said, aiming at Sherlock._ _

__“Not particularly,” he says and stands. “But victim is in his mid-twenties, new trainers, Nike’s newest line, so he clearly had money. Wasn’t skimming money, comes from it as evidenced from his fingernails and haircut. Wearing posh shoes, but it’s been raining for days. Clearly off to some sort of important event. Club, perhaps, as his shirt is just a shade too tight and he reeks of cologne. None of the bills in his pocket show signs of water damage so he likely didn’t walk here, or he lives very close by to this location. There’s no signs of a struggle, but bruising around the face; if he was sitting when he died he would have slumped backwards, all signs point to him falling forward, perhaps from standing.”_ _

__“Brilliant,” John says, realizing a bit too late that he’s gazing up at Sherlock, his voice a bit too soft and proud for the situation._ _

__Sherlock narrows his gaze at John, ignoring the comment and continues. “No phone. Did he forget it? Did the killer–yes, a killer, Lestrade, serial suicides make no sense–did they take it? If we can locate the phone, perhaps we’ll have a lead.”_ _

__“Fantastic,” John said with a smile, this time not bothering to become embarrassed by the wonder in his voice._ _

__“Do you know you’re doing that out loud?” Sherlock asks, quietly._ _

__John finds himself smiling, unrepentant, “Yes.”_ _

__“Oh.” Sherlock purses his lips, “Good.”_ _

__Across the room, Lestrade disguises a chuckle with a cough, though neither John nor Sherlock buys it._ _

__“Alright then, you’ll obviously have to fill out the paperwork _and_ please don’t go off on your own on this. Please. This needs to be by the books. I’ll need to have you on this officially Sherlock, please.”_ _

__“Seems like the _legal_ thing to do, the _logical_ thing to do,” John says out of the corner of his mouth and Sherlock sighs, quite audibly._ _

__“Fine!” He shouts after a moment, “Where’s the paperwork?_ _

__They spend another hour filling out forms in triplicate, and John is shocked to find that Sherlock doesn’t grumble about it much. John isn’t exactly sure what his capacity with the case is, but signs where Sherlock tells him to sign, vowing to review the carbon copies of the paperwork thoroughly when he gets a chance._ _

__It’s nearing midnight as they wrap things up, and John realizes that he hasn’t eaten since lunch. As if on cue, his stomach rumbles, audibly enough that Sherlock turns to look down at him._ _

__There’s a moment of silence before Sherlock finally speaks. “Dinner?” Sherlock poses, as they walk side-by-side out to a main road._ _

__“Oh, uh, yeah that’d be good.” John’s heart leaps at the suggestion; he swears to himself it doesn’t mean anything._ _

__“I know a nice, quiet pub on Euston Street that is a mainstay of London’s more refined criminal class; good people watching and they have fantastic fish specials.”_ _

__John’s knuckles brush the back of Sherlock’s and John finds himself on the edge of giddy laughter. “Lead on,” he says, getting the distinct idea that he’s somehow getting himself in over his head and not caring one bit._ _


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I thought of you often... Christ, when was the last time anyone had said anything even remotely as, well, romantic, like that to him?

“You did well today.”

John watches him for a moment, his lips seeming to be in the middle of deciding whether to smile or frown. “Yeah, uh, thanks?”

“I just meant-”

“I know. I’m just having a bit of trouble processing all of this,” John says, running his left thumb against the lip of the table. “Serial suicides.”

“Nasty business,” Sherlock says with a sly smirk and motions for the barman to come over.

They both order a pint and John opts for the fish and chips before realizing that Sherlock isn’t going to order anything. “What, aren’t you going to eat?”

“Eating slows me down,” comes the starchy reply.

“Also keeps your energy up, but,” John trails off, sipping at his lager. He keeps his eyes trained on Sherlock, knowing full well that Sherlock can feel his gaze, though finding that he doesn’t care. It’s long moments before Sherlock shifts back around, his liquid eyes meeting John’s.

“See that woman, across from us with the green blouse? She’s planning on killing her husband,” Sherlock says, his smile resting on the lip of his pint. “But, her husband deserves it, so.”

“He deserves it?” John asks, not particularly troubled by the deduction, but interested.

“There’s bruising that’s only just covered by the sleeves of her shirt, I’ll allow you to extrapolate,” Sherlock says and glances away, across the barroom, lost in his own mind, and John takes the opportunity to make a few deductions of his own. Posh shoes, posh coat, bespoke suit, and yet Sherlock Holmes doesn’t seem to care that he’s traipsing through skips and crime scenes, mucking them all up. Dresses to impress but has no regard for his clothing. Money, then, John surmises and finishes off his lager.

John’s food comes, dropped off with a thud as the barman walks away, not particularly caring where the plate lands. John shrugs and drops a paper napkin in his lap and digs in. He watches the other patrons for a moment until he catches Sherlock snatching a chip off of his plate.

“Thought eating slowed you down,” John ribs, once he’s swallowed his mouthful of food.

Sherlock holds his gaze and grabs another chip, “They always taste better when stolen from someone else’s plate.”

It’s such a human thing to say, and John finds himself laughing, remembering filching crisps from his sister’s plate for that very reason. “True enough.” He forks off another bit of fish. “So, serial suicides.”

Sherlock nods, chewing. “But not.”

“What do you mean, not?”

“There’s no such thing as serial suicides, John. They took the poison themselves.”

“And you’re wondering how,” John says after a moment of chewing and swallowing.

Sherlock’s lips tighten and he cringes a bit. Not used to not knowing, then. “Yes.” 

John nods, grabs the vinegar and sprinkles some on.

“Abhorrent,” Sherlock says.

“Good to know. Now I know how to stop you stealing my bloody chips.”

As if just to spite him, Sherlock grabs another and pops it into his mouth with a bit more pomp than the moment calls for. John almost laughs, but thinks that might fuel the flames, so to speak, and instead he levels Sherlock with a glare. “So, you look at what each of these people have in common, yeah?”

“Nothing, John. They have nothing in common, thus far. And that!” Sherlock interrupts himself. “Ah, that man there has embezzled considerable funds from the man sitting across from him.”

John does a double take at the abrupt subject change, but manages to keep up. “Go over and tell him, give me some dinner time entertainment.”

That garners a laugh from Sherlock who turns back to meet John’s gaze. “What, is my company not enough?”

John’s about to put a bit of fish in his mouth as he says, “Oh, quite the contrary.” He’s not sure why he feels so foolish saying it, like a teenager complementing their crush in the school hallway, but he does. They sit in a surprisingly companionable silence, the warmth of the pub and the lager in his stomach causing John to let his guard down just a bit.

“So, is this where you take your dates?” It’s meant to be teasing–it’s a dank and dim pub, after all–but there’s a note of obvious inquiry in John’s voice, and it causes Sherlock to stare at him for a long moment.

“You believe I’d take my dates to a run of the mill pub that is frequented by London’s underclasses?” Sherlock’s voice is completely deadpan, and it’s his eyes that do the real inquiring for him.

John huffs out a laugh, covers his mouth with the back of his hand as he chews and swallows. “Well, first of all, these chips are amazing, so maybe not run of the mill. And yeah, seems a bit more up your alley than a posh restaurant. Bit more fun, too.”

“Are you having fun, John?”

He crumples his simple paper napkin and pushes the plate with the remaining chips towards Sherlock, who begins picking again without a fork. John wonders briefly if this is how Sherlock functions, runs on fumes and the occasionally stop for terrible food before dashing off again. He wonders what kind of life that is.

He clears his throat, and tries to come off nonchalant. But John wonders why he’s policing himself around Sherlock Holmes so much. “Course. Murders? Intrigue? Most exciting thing I’ve done since-”

“Afghanistan?”

John almost smiles, but manages to hold back. It wouldn’t do to smile about his time in an active warzone. That’s not normal. “That would be a horrible things to say, but… something like that.”

And Sherlock smiles at him, knowingly, and John finds himself wondering what he could have just possibly revealed about himself in that one, short sentence. Everything, probably, for someone who is apparently the world’s most perceptive man.

John changes course, hoping to take the attention off of himself. “So what’s next?”

Sherlock pauses in bringing another chip up to his mouth and puts it carefully back down on the plate. “You care to know?”

“Well, I’m in on this now, aren’t I?” John hopes, oh how he hopes.

Sherlock’s eyes widen, flecks of green and gold picking up the low light in the pub and John finds himself just a bit taken. . “I… suppose you are.”

“‘Sides, you could always use a doctor, yeah?” For a moment he thinks he may be overstepping his bounds, and then he just doesn’t give a toss. This is too intriguing to miss out on, and being with Sherlock, well, he’d like a bit more of that, too.

“Hmm,” Sherlock’s eyes narrow a fraction, and Sherlock very obviously sizes him up. John waits for the decision. “Could be very dangerous, you know.”

John smiles and finishes off the dregs of his lager. “Even better.”

\--- 

John is treated to a cab ride back to his bedsit; Sherlock drops him by and waves him away with just a nod of his head, and then he’s gone, speeding off into the night. John watches as the black taxi pulls away, gaze lingering until it’s out of view.

Suddenly, he realizes just how keyed up he is. His blood feels as though it’s positively racing through his vein, his skin pricks delightedly at the hint of breeze in the air, his eyes dart from here to there, looking for something to occupy his field of vision. Damn, he feels alert and alive. 

He walks up to the front of his building, grabs the door handle and then thinks better of it; he’s too excited to go inside and just sit or sleep, so instead John does an about face. He walks northwest, along quiet and somewhat dubious streets until he finds his legs won’t hold him any longer. He’s still stunned that his leg has managed to work as it has, especially without his cane, and the realization causes another thrill to run through him.

If he didn’t know any better–and if he didn’t think that Sherlock would be able to read it all over him they next time they met up–John would think that Sherlock was a miracle worker. 

When he arrives back at the flat, he’s still far too awake to even attempt sleep, and though the clock reads just past one in the morning, John boots up his laptop. Can’t hurt to do a thorough searching of the internet for anything related to the case. He pokes around, searching google and then searching message boards, just for the hell of it. He doesn’t come up with anything, but he does feel as though he’s done something helpful and purposeful and it gives him a sense of accomplishment that he hasn’t really felt in quite some time.

It’s only when his eyes grow tired that he realizes that he hasn’t bothered to check his email, hasn’t looked to see if Guest has reached out to him.

Sherlock Holmes has eclipsed his obsessive need to check on Guest. It’s a bit troubling that John doesn’t know how to feel about that. He decides not to dissect it–too late, too silly, too pointless–and opens his email anyway. 

There is one email from Guest; he opens it with only brief hesitation.

_ John, I find myself truly tired for the first time in ages. I generally don’t sleep, but this evening will most certainly be an exception. Without divulging too much, I had a very pleasant and enlightening evening. I hope your evening and indeed, day, was enjoyable. I find myself wanting you to have days that are fulfilling; is that strange? Then, I am strange, so my being strange wouldn’t be so… strange. _

_ I thought of you often today. I’ve no idea why. _

Guilt slams through him, and just on the heels of that, a sense that he’s been completely and utterly ridiculous. So Guest had thought of him while he’d been out with Sherlock; so what? Guest had stood him up, had all but made his interaction with Sherlock in the cafe possible. Guest’s absence had led John down another path, and he shouldn’t feel guilty about walking that path. He certainly shouldn’t feel beholden to someone he’s never met.

But still… Guest thinking of him today, and often…

Wasn’t that something?

John’s fingers hover over the keyboard as his mind searches for anything to say in return.  _ I’m flattered _ , he begins and then stalls. What to say? He can’t really return the sentiment. _ My day was interesting indeed. I actually can’t sleep right now, which isn’t a surprise really. But after the day I had I should. I’m glad you’re going to be able to sleep tonight. It’s never good if you have less than six hours I always say. _

He sends that off before he can become maudlin once more about their missing one another in Speedy’s. John glances at the clock and realizes that an hour has gone by, and it’s pushing two-fifteen; he should sleep. A yawn chases its way up his throat and he lets out a relieved groan; perhaps he’ll conk out entirely through the nightmares tonight.

John is wrapping up a second yawn when his email pings.

_ Ah, I see we’ve lost the rapport that we’ve managed to build. I apologize. Though I said that I was sure to disappoint you, please know that I’m very, very much looking forward to May 11. _

_ That’s the second Sunday in May, the 11th. _

John is a bit ashamed to realize that he’s completely forgotten about meeting Guest. It seems so long ago that he’d agreed to that, succumbed to sweet, butterfly-like nerves when the date had been set.

Can he pursue two men at once? Is he pursuing them at all? Does he even want to? God, he’s gone and cocked this all up before he’s begun, he’s sure of it. Though, on the other hand, John reminds himself that he owes neither of these men anything at all. So what if he’s interested in both of them; he’s dated plenty of people who were dating others casually. It’s what people do, isn’t it?

He’s too tired to think of it just now, and far too gone to formulate a deserving response to Guest’s email, so he closes his browser and shuts his laptop down.

John heads to the shower, allowing the old adage “tomorrow is a new day” to run on a loop through his head.

\---

John wakes with an intense shock, bolting upright in bed and tossing the covers to the floor. It’s not a nightmare; he struggles through the fog to realize that it’s simply anxiety, a feeling of abject carelessness that he left such a heartfelt and vulnerable email just sitting in his inbox.

I thought of you often ... Christ, when was the last time anyone had said anything even remotely as, well, romantic , like that to him? His heart hammers in his chest as he swipes a hand over his eyes and rises from bed, takes the few short steps to the kitchenette and flicks the kettle on.

He’s not going to turn on his computer until he’s completely caffeinated. He’s going to delve into his own psyche about what exactly all of this means before he’s had at least one cup of very strong coffee.

John goes about making a spot of breakfast–just eggs on toast–and sucks down a mugful of black coffee while standing at the counter before he pads over to his desk and boots up the ancient Dell. 

When he gets to his email, he paces himself. He deletes his spam, responds to an email from Harry and tells Molly that he can handle the morgue on Friday if she wants the day off; he owes her for handling the inspection this afternoon anyway. It’s only after he’s through with that business that he revisits the email from Guest.

He shouldn’t dodge Guest’s assertion that he’s looking forward to May 11, but it feels disingenuous to completely ignore how adrift he feels. Honesty, as ever, is a policy that John Watson lives by, and so, he decides that being wholly truthful is probably his best course of action.

_ Guest, _

_ I have to admit, recent life events have made you a less pressing and alluring idea in my mind. I wish they didn’t, but you standing me up actually really threw me off. I know I was happy when you suggested a second meeting, but I can’t help thinking that this one will be just the same. I hope it’s not, I truly do. You seem like maybe you’re looking forward to this more than I am which surprises me honestly. Because you’re usually terse and closed off. _

_ Your email made me feel special. Your email made me wonder what you were thinking about me for. I think about you sometimes too. At the oddest time.  _

_ But, and this is going to sound terrible probably but I hope I’m not the only one you’re htinking about. Because you’re not the only one I’m thinking about. _

_ May 11th is just three weeks away. I really hope these three weeks don’t change anything for us but sometimes life gets in the way. _

It’s a bit of a mess, but John finds that he doesn’t want to change any of it, not even the typos. If Guest is writing from the heart, then John can, too. He sends off the email without a second thought and presses back from the desk, his palms on the lip. He balances his chair on its back legs for a few moments before deciding to get up and go for a morning walk.

He very purposefully leaves his mobile sitting on the desk next to the laptop.

John is halfway down Hampstead Heath when he spies a familiar form on one of the benches up ahead. He manages to jog around the other pedestrians and pull up to Sherlock Holmes, whose head is bent over his mobile.

The frown he wears is deep, and for some unknown reason causes John’s stomach to twist. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Sherlock doesn’t look up, “Is it?”

“It is. We keep running into one another,” John says.

“Well, in this instance, you’ve run entirely into me,” Sherlock pockets his mobile and glances up at John with a little half-smile. 

“Spose that’s true.” John glances around at the other people out and about, enjoying their morning. “Working on the case?”

“I enjoy coming here in the morning, the wealth of diversity among the people is fascinating.” John watches as Sherlock’s eyes flit from one person to the next; it’s all he can do to hold himself back from asking Sherlock to detail each and every one.

“That a fancy way of you saying you like people watching?” John asks on a chuckle.

Sherlock actually smiles; it reaches his eyes, lips pull back to bare his teeth. John’s quite taken with it for a moment. “I suppose it is. And, I know you like to walk here some mornings.”

“You following me?” John knows he’s probably not, but wouldn’t put it past a man like Sherlock Holmes.  The fact that Sherlock knows that John likes to walk here… John thinks that should be telling, though he’s not sure of what.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, a truly breathtaking show of retinal capability. “Your shoes, John, any idiot could see-”

“Alright, alright. You were looking for me… why?”

“You’re not due in for another three hours due to the morgue inspection, I thought you’d like to come to the Yard with me and review some of the cases of interest to this one.”

“You want my help?”

“I thought you might enjoy it,” Sherlock explains, sounds quite exasperated.

“Well, that’s even weirder.”

“Is that a no?”

“That’s a, come on, let me just head back and change, actually,” John says, beaming. He turns on his heels, about to head back the way he’d come, when he realizes that Sherlock is still sitting on the bench. John pauses, turns, raises a brow. “Are you coming?”

“Where?”

John’s eyes narrow and he speaks a bit slower this time. “Back to my place… so that I can change… and we can go?”

“Oh,” Sherlock says, remains sitting. “Oh! Yes!” And with that he pops up off of the bench and catches up with John, falls into step alongside him. John gets a gentle whiff of Sherlock’s scent, something muted but spicy, probably hair product. He finds he quite likes it.

They don’t speak on the way back to John’s though John does snatch glimpses of Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, looks that he’s almost sure Sherlock can feel, what with the way in which he appears to train his gaze steadfastly forward. It’s only a short ten minutes back to John’s flat, but it feels much longer; he doesn’t feel the need to speak, necessarily, but the silence feels charged, as though anything could happen at any minute.

John finds that he’s actually excited about the shift in atmosphere now, with Sherlock beside him. They take a right onto Heathborne and before John knows it, they’re pulling up in front of his rather derelict building.

It hadn’t even occurred to him to be embarrassed by where he lives; should he be? John makes one actual glance over to Sherlock but can’t read his face, so he leads them down the short stone path and into the building, up through the stairwell with flickering sodium lights, to the door of his bedsit.

He turns the key in the door and walks in, assuming that Sherlock will follow behind. When he realizes the absence of footsteps behind him, John pauses and turns.

“Problem?”

Sherlock blinks fervently, as though he’s been pulled out of some deduction or reverie and says, “I’d no idea that Number Ten was allowing our veterans to live in such depressing squalor.”

John isn’t sure how to take that, really. So he just shrugs and moves to his small dresser, pulling out a sweater at random. “Well… the government is always gung-ho to fund a war but doesn’t give a toss what happens when we’ve outlived our value.”

He means it as a joke, but there is no ensuing chuckle. When John turns around, he finds Sherlock standing in the middle of his sitting room, staring rather pointedly in John’s direction. “You’ve not outlived your value, John. Not by a mile.”

And John doesn’t know what to do with that either, or with the hot feeling that races up his neck and stains his cheeks. John has no idea at all what to do with Sherlock Holmes but is rather unsurprised to find that he doesn’t think that to be a problem. 

“Right, uh,” his fingers trace up the back of his neck and ruffle through his hair. “Let me just… change, and we’ll be off. Help yourself to,” John sweeps his hand towards the kitchenette, and before he can reveal anything else, he walks into the bathroom, closes the door and falls back against it.

Jesus Christ.

He’s got one hell of a crush.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My most profuse apologies for taking quite literally FOREVER to write this next chapter. Life got in the way, and then season 4 happened and kicked us all in the nads. 
> 
> My thanks to [Erin](http://thescienceofobsession.tumblr.com/) for her much-needed help on this chapter.

When they leave John’s flat, ten minutes later, Sherlock is busy scheming. He hates that it feels like lying, but there’s nothing for it. Sherlock has to keep John enthralled, and what exactly would be the best way to do that?

Something to keep John interested, something to ensure John stays by his side. If he can manage to keep John hooked throughout the case, maybe Sherlock has a chance. Maybe Guest, too, has a chance. A chance for a future, a chance to see what John’s eyes are like first thing in the morning-

The thought startles him, how positively romantic it is. Sherlock, too, wonders if John Watson is simply stirring up a dormant part of him that another might have been able to as well, or if this is unique to John.

Sherlock hazards that it’s likely the latter.

They’re a few paces down the pavement when Sherlock glances over at John. The feeble sunlight pushing its way through the low clouds seems to encompass him, seems to bend around and hold him, suspended, beautiful. John’s hair is still wet and Sherlock admonishes himself mightily for finding it charming, the way it looks slicked down, almost as though he’s a greaser from the fifties. John keeps his hair military-neat, but Sherlock finds himself wondering how he could best muss it with his fingers, undo some of that rigidity.  It’s an entirely inappropriate road to start down, but he finds himself on it more and more lately.

“Tube’s this way,” John says, thumb pointing to his right and Sherlock simply shakes his head–both to clear it and also register disapproval–steps to the kerb and tosses out a hand. It’s only a moment or two before a black cab pulls up in front of them.

John adjusts his stance, rolls his shoulders. “Do you have special, taxi-divination powers?” he asks, even as he climbs in behind Sherlock. In front of him, Sherlock smirks, unseen.

Once they’re seated comfortably, Sherlock whips out his phone and addresses the very-obvious rhetorical question, because he can, because this is it, the beginning of a rapport. “It does help to be tall.”

“Arse,” John mumbles, just loud enough that Sherlock knows that it’s not meant to be under his breath. Again, Sherlock finds himself smiling; he feels it on his face, stretching his cheeks to their limit and he has to work to get his senses in check.

It doesn’t help that he can smell John, dime-store soap fresh, right next to him. The spicy-sweet combination of off-brand cleanser hits Sherlock’s nose and he’s startlingly aware that any time going forth, if he smells this scent, it will remind him immediately of John Watson.

In an attempt to distract himself, Sherlock turns his attention out the window of the cab, but that too makes him think of John. There are couples on the pavement, waiting for the light to change. Three pairs, two holding hands, one laughing together.

Two men; one, reaching for the other’s hand while the other bats it playfully away before snatching it up, kissing the knuckles. It’s such a private moment that he’s seeing, it feels voyeuristic, but it’s fantastically beautiful.

Sherlock feels profoundly… _something_.  

“You really think we’ll find anything in the files?”

It takes Sherlock a brief second to tear his attention away from the scene outside of the cab. John, as always, proves to be much more intuitive than anyone would imagine. Of course they won’t, they’ll find nothing, but that’s not the point. “Due diligence.”

“Bollocks,” John laughs. “I don’t know you well, but I know enough to see clearly that you’re not one for due diligence.”

Sherlock doesn’t know how to say it, doesn’t know how to vocalize that he wants to keep John with him on cases, like this, and thus he’s playing nice.  “This is the bit where I tell you, _do shut up_.”

“To be honest,” John says, “I was waiting for that.”

“Then, John, I think you know me just about as well, if not better, than most people.”

\---

It’s very nearly pouring by the time they reach New Scotland Yard, and they dash from the taxi to the revolving doors, avoiding puddles when they can.

Once inside, Sherlock shakes the water from his coat–wool does tend to absorb moisture in the most disgusting of ways–and catches John eyeing him up as he does so. It shouldn’t thrill him, knowing that John likes him, but it truly does. He takes a moment to fluff his hair back up as well, noting that John’s eyes do not leave his face.

Interesting.   _Fantastic_ . Strange, that this slightly supersedes the need he has to solve this case. That’s ever-present, but just the idea of John, constantly making itself known alongside these alluring suicides begs Sherlock’s attention. _Why. Why not?_

Sherlock checks in–follows the rules, hates the way it feels, grits his teeth–and actually wears the visitor’s badge that is given to the both of him. He feels like a buffoon; he knows that everyone will look at him and wonder _why._ It’s the first time in a very long time that he’s bothered to think about how others view him while simultaneously not giving a toss.

Whatever keeps John by his side.

It’s a short ride to the seventh floor, and an even shorter walk through the bullpen to Lestrade’s office. Just as predicted, someone chimes in, before they’ve made it inside the sleek, glass vestibule of the detective inspector’s office.

“Really, freak. With the visitor’s badge!” Sally says, vaguely alarmed and completely amused.

John, pulling up short behind Sherlock when he stops, glances from Sally to Sherlock, Sherlock to Sally. “That’s pretty… unprofessional,” he says. His arms, formerly at his sides, come up to cross securely over his chest.

Sherlock is very nearly certain that all air has been sucked out of the room, making it impossible for sound to travel.

Sally raises a brow, not one to back down from a challenge. Sherlock has always admired that about her, but he’ll never admit to it. “Who’re you? A colleague? How long have you known him, then?”

“Long enough to know,” John squares his shoulders, goes a bit rigid; Sherlock clocks it as military stance in an instance and is shaken to find that he’s rather taken by it. “That he’s solved more cases for you than is probably good? If the media found out, I don’t know, that would be bad for business, wouldn’t it? Not for his,” John tosses another thumb in his direction.

“That a threat?” Sally asks, still not backing down– _good on you, Sally Donovan_ –puts her right hand on her hip. Her face and posture look passive and cool, but Sherlock knows better.

“Course not,” John returns, some of the rigidness going out of his form, “Making an observation. Kinda like he does, just-“

Sherlock cuts in, so thrown by the display in front of him that there’s barely any heat in it. “Your observational skills are absolutely eons away from being adequate,” Sherlock chimes in, and is delighted when John turns, gives him a smile.

“Right. Not standing up for you again.”

And like that, Sally is all but forgotten; they fall in step next to one another as they cross the threshold into Lestrade’s office. “Can’t believe you’re asking for actual case files,” is his way of greeting, as he chews the last of his mid-morning donut.

John chuckles, attempts to cover it with a cough, but fails. “Due diligence,” he says quietly, as Lestrade raises an amused brow.

Sherlock gets the distinct impression that he’s being teased; it’s such a novel feeling that he pauses to catalogue it. It’s not like the teasing he received from the boys in primary school, but rather good-natured. Something that friends do to one another.

“Shut up,” Sherlock says a moment later, but he can feel the slick little smile tipping his lips and turns to John to find him wearing a similar expression.

“Nice to see you again… John, was it?” Lestrade cuts in, oblivious to the scene unfolding before him

“Doctor John Watson,” Sherlock begins, his gaze remaining on John before he turns and addresses Lestrade. “Here to assist me in looking at the pertinent files.”

Lestrade simply quirks a brow and inclines his head towards the stack in front of him. “Information on every suicide we’ve record of, over the past five years.”

Sherlock knows that he likely won’t find anything in the minutia, but he’d needed a reason to see John. Needed a reason to bring John along, immerse him in the case, capitalize on his obvious adrenaline addiction.   _Bit not good_ …

Is it wrong to spend time with John under the guise of a case? It likely isn’t the best avenue, but Sherlock finds himself rather confused. Are there rules about this? Surely there are. But this isn’t a date, so perhaps there aren’t.

It occurs to Sherlock that John is no longer by his side, and he stops fretting about what all of this is or isn’t and joins him at the small table to the left of Lestrade’s desk. John and Lestrade are chatting, friendly, buddy-buddy. Rugby, the construction on the Bakerloo line; normal, human things.

Sherlock finds he can’t figure out the first thing to add to the conversation.

John, Sherlock is coming to realize, is every bit the normal London bloke on the outside. He’s very clever at wielding his disguise. His everyman demeanor obfuscates his sharp wit, his intelligence, his craving for danger. There are surely layers deeper, layers buried further, that make up the foundation of John Watson and Sherlock very desperately wishes to discover them.

Twenty days, that’s all that stands between him and the moment he reveals himself to John. Twenty days until he reveals himself to be Guest. Twenty days until this all changes, possibly, until it all disintegrates.

Disingenuous. He feels oily, and oddly guilty. Sherlock has never wanted, before, not like this.  But he can’t stop, not now. To give up his identity now would absolutely serve to pull the rug out from under John; there would be no possibility of a pleasant resolution until Sherlock made it rather plain that even his own jagged edges could be smoothed.

If he’d only told John about Guest sooner. Hindsight after all is quite clear, and harping on decisions on the past will do him no good, but he can’t help but think…

But no, he’s in too deep now, showing John juxtaposing sides of himself through two different personas. And maybe, Sherlock begrudgingly realizes, this may have been the only way these interactions between them could have possibly played out. People generally do not take to him, and it had been so much easier to be open, be honest– _While being utterly dishonest_ , his brother’s voice rings–while being Guest.

All he can hope for is that John can accept what has happened. And how odd, he finds, that he wants to be the very best version of himself for John Watson. How keenly perplexing.

“Sherlock?” John asks and he’s tugged from the complex web of his own thoughts to focus on the information in front of him. He sinks back into his file with a feigned sense of purpose, and finds himself passing the short time examining the crime scene photos, simply for future reference.

They find nothing, as Sherlock was sure of, and they leave Scotland Yard a few minutes before noon. John doesn’t seem put out by the lack of new evidence, but then, it’s all part of the bigger puzzle, and that’s what has John fascinated, to be sure.

“So that was…”

“A waste of time,” Sherlock does his best to grouse, as he pulls his mobile from his coat pocket.

“Not entirely,” John supposes.

“Oh?”

“Greg plays for a club rugby team, might go and see a bout.”

“And play?”

John smiles at him, shrugs, “Oh, you know.”

Sherlock’s mind immediately supplies him with a rather lurid image of John in his rugby kit, muddy and sweaty. “Ah. Well.”

“Well,” John repeats, shoving his hands into his pockets. “It was…”

“A waste of time,” Sherlock repeats.

“Right, that,” he laughs and takes a step away from Sherlock. “Should head back to Barts.”

“Right, yes. I. …your assistance was.” Sherlock’s mouth twists as he searches for the word. “Fine.”

_God damn it, Sherlock_.

“Fine,” John sounds, digests it. “I suppose that’s quite a bit better than terrible, so. I’ll… see you around?”

“Yes, good,” Sherlock says, paying incredibly close attention to his mobile because he’s not entirely sure what to say, now. It’s an odd sensation, a pit-of-the-stomach hollowness that permeates his body with want, the notion of John leaving.

_Stay_ , Sherlock thinks. _Stay, this is insane. You’re insane, and brilliant, and suit me right down to the ground, stay._

But John is already retreating, hands in his pockets as he sets off in the direction of Barts.

It’s maddening, how lonely this man makes him feel when he’s just a few scant yards away.

\----

Sherlock finds himself restless; it’s not a new experience, but he’s strangely on edge, now. He returns back to his flat and feeds Redbeard, scratches out a few more bars on the composition he’s undertaken, and actually removes the various items in the refrigerator that are too far gone to salvage.

He walks Redbeard, then runs, then finds that twelve miles is quite enough for a dog Redbeard’s age, and takes a scalding hot shower that lasts far too long. There are things he could be tending to, experiments that need beginning, notes that need to be rewritten, but he finds that he can’t get his mind off of John.

A moment later and Sherlock is at his laptop, rushing to open his email client.

_John_ , he begins. _Isn’t humanity fascinating? All of the learned mores, values?_ _People finding common ground even the most innocuous of situations? The need to form bonds, strengthen those bonds, cement them? Normally, I abhor that sort of interaction; simply put, most of humanity bores me. The strict, straight, lines. The walk on the left, stand on the right. The conformity, the same thing, day in and day out. But you John, you don’t bore me. Isn’t that something?_

_You’re well within your rights to think about others. But if we’re being frank, I’ve found myself unable to stop thinking of you. I find myself unable to unburden myself from the guilt that comes from missing our meeting._

_You’re not boring, you’re brilliant._

_Twenty days._

It’s maudlin, it’s silly, it’s exactly what he wants to say, and for once, he doesn’t second guess himself in the slightest when he hits the ‘send’ button.

He knows of relationships, he knows the trite little ins and outs of them. He’s heard tell from victims and from perpetrators, from suspects and witnesses, they all talk about it. Sherlock has a wealth of knowledge about what people will do to one another, what they want from one another, that they crave and won’t ever ask for.

But that’s all boring.

It’s the other things, the things that are hard to qualify the real importance of, the things that make absolutely no sense outside the context of a relationship. The things that have meaning between two people, that are crucial, that may be small and meaningly to some, but to those two people, are cherished.    
  
It’s taken Sherlock some time to understand those idiosyncrasies, those seemingly insignificant little details. But they’re important; he understands now, after knowing John, that the way someone laughs, the tone and the volume, it matters.

He calls up interactions he’s had with others, in the past. He recalls someone speaking to him about late night chats they shared with their partner, the pillow creases on their partner’s face in the morning, and how they miss, miss, _miss_ that. He recalls a husband relating a tale of a home-cooked meal that ends with an argument. It all begins to make sense, the little things, the keys given and asked to be returned, the anniversaries and births and deeds signed. It’s people building their lives around one another, wanting that. It’s important, because that’s the minutia of a relationship.

Independently, it all so hopelessly dull. All of it. But, he considers John’s tendency to rub at the back of his neck when he’s unsure, the way he holds a fork and knife, his smile, the way he walks, swinging his arms to and fro, purposeful. It’s _appealing,_ somehow, being the one to notice and cherish these things about John Watson. He wants to be the only person who knows these things about John, the only one who knows what they mean.

His fingers rest against the lip of his laptop and he feels suddenly, startlingly at ease, as though sharing his exact thoughts with John had alleviated some before-unknown part of him.

_Is this what it’s like?_ he wonders, for the umpteenth time. _To want everything, all at once?_

Should it be this soul-rattling, that he wants all of this with a man he’s deduced, right down to the type of lubricant he likes? Should it be less than, because it had been so easy for Sherlock to see so many things about John, or should it be more, because he’s surprised, delighted and overcome by the ferocity and dedication and humility and bravery that embody John Watson?

Or does any of it matter at all, because Sherlock is rather certain that this, this hopeless miasma of sickening, breath-taking emotion must be what people mean when they describe falling in love.

The thought halts his entire body; it’s as though the blood stops pumping, cells remain inert, no breath, no enzymatic reaction.

Because, it’s a bit on the nose, but from what he knows of human nature, from the complete foreignness of this sensation, Sherlock Holmes is falling in love.

His dressing gown flutters out angrily behind him as he stands from his laptop and spins. He has to get out, has to move, be free, break from the tethers that are binding him to this preposterous situation that… should be beneath him but…

Isn’t.

How did he let this happen? As brilliant, terrifying, humbling as it is, he should have seen this coming. Should have predicted it. _But how_ , his brother’s voice rings between his ears, and Sherlock tears at his hair to rid himself of the offensive drawl.   _If you didn’t know what love was, you were powerless to stop it, brother mine._

He’s tearing off his dressing gown and tossing it away, moving bare through the kitchen to his bedroom and pulling on the nearest serviceable suit. He’ll take his Belstaff to the cleaners, he’ll get a coffee, he’ll visit Molly and-

His email pings.

Sherlock nearly trips over Redbeard as he’s walking by, in his haste to get to the computer.

_I don’t know what to say to this. I’m flattered. A little more than flattered to be honest. Really, it feels like you’re crossing some sort of line here. Not that it’s bad, I just don’t know what to do about all this._  
_  
_ If you’re someone that’s bored easy, well, maybe we shouldn’t meet. Nothing to write home about on this end.

Sherlock stands, gaping at the words on the screen, and silently curses John for thinking so little of himself. Nothing to write home about? Well, Sherlock has something to say about that. Even if he has to keep it to John5NF and not John Watson.

Primly, Sherlock takes a seat at his laptop and opens up a reply window.  
  
_I pride myself on being able to tell the best and the worst about people. I’ve been told that I’m quite intuitive, and am rarely wrong. If I believe you to be interesting, upstanding, intelligent, and fascinating, I’m not wrong._

Sherlock sends the email with a stab of the trackpad and sits back, irrationally angry that John would think himself anything other than spectacular. But then, Sherlock knows how easy it is to be self-deprecating; he’s practically medalled in it. For all of his egotism, he’s aware that he’s socially awkward, very odd-looking, and caustic. But, if a man like John can find it in himself to be friendly– _more than friendly, the way he was looking you over this morning_ , his mind supplies haughtily–to Sherlock Holmes, then perhaps Sherlock doesn’t see all of himself, either.

He’s worrying his bottom lip when a dialog box pops open in his email client.

**John5NF** : Well, that was a bit of a humble brag

Sherlock watches his cursor flicker and disappear in the reply box a few times before he takes another breath. The bones of his fingers very nearly vibrate as he types his response.

**guest_47995** : Excuse me?  
**John5NF** : You’re so intuitive that you must know me.  
**guest_47995** : I do know you.

_In so many ways, John..._

**John5NF** : This is mad, you know nothing about me. This was insane from the beginning. Time to call enough, enough yeah?

Sherlock’s mind stutters, screeches, revs up and works in double time, trying to figure out what to say in response to _that_.

**guest_47995** : I disagree.  
**John5NF** : Luckily, I can just sign off and call it quits  
**guest_47995** : Please don’t.

**John5NF** : Why not? This is insanity

His fingers are poised over the keys to type, but he stops. He needs to be sure of what he wants to say, doesn’t want John to see the telltale ellipses bubbles and have to _wait_ for him to say something in return.

**guest_47995** : Because there are seven billion people on the planet and we happened upon one another in a chat room, of all places. I certainly don’t believe in the rubbish that is “fated meetings” but it certainly wasn’t an accident. You’re fascinating and patient and kind. You’re intelligent and weren’t put off by my nature after our first interaction. You’ve helped me in my work to the point where I view your input as valued. I don’t meet many people who take to me, as I’ve said, but then, this isn’t just about me. I think I could be of service to you, as well.

There are ellipses that appear and disappear several times; the anxiety in Sherlock’s stomach notches up another level with each appearance and disappearance.

**John5NF** : I don’t know what to say to that  
**guest_47995** : And why is that, John?  
**John5NF** : Because you make me feel intelligent and valued  
**John5NF** : and I don’t even know you, and I get more from you  
**John5NF** : support and encouragement and i don’t know happiness maybe, than I ever have from anyone and isn’t that a little messed up? You’ve become important to me. And you’re just a name on a computer screen, a million miles away.

**guest_47995** : We’re both in London. :P  
**John5NF** : not to mention I have a terrible influence on you, what with the emoji usage.

Sherlock smiles, looks down at his lap, feels himself flush and then turns his attention back to the monitor.

**guest_47995** : I find I quite like them. They remind me of you.

**John5NF** : Thanks. ;-)  
**John5NF** : I guess what I’m saying is that I came back from where I was thinking I was of no use and then we met in that chat room  
**John5NF** : Fuck it. I was invalided out of the army.

Sherlock feels as though he’s been punched in the gut. For John to reveal something so personal to him online, is incredibly important. It’s odd; time slows and Sherlock can hear the blood rushing furiously in his ears. This is new information to Guest_47995, but not to Sherlock. He has to respond, somehow, and quickly, quickly enough that he doesn’t appear to be taken aback by the situation, but he has to do so cautiously.

John is obviously not liberal with giving people information about his background.

**guest_47995** : That must have been difficult, and I’m very sorry to hear that. It must have been a challenge for you to assimilate back into civilian life, given what I know of the military.

**John5NF** : you’re taught stiff upper lip and all that but yes it was hard. And talking to you, it’s made it so much easier, it really has.

**guest_47995** : Then why end this? Wait three weeks, we can meet, and then, if it’s all awful and we find that we’re not the people we thought the other was,  
**John5NF** : Twenty days.  
**guest_47995** : What?  
**John5NF** : You said three weeks, it’s twrnty days until we meet.  
**guest_47995** : Not that you’re counting. ;)  
**John5NF** : alright yes, not like I’m counting ;-)  
**guest_47995** : So, twenty days?

It takes awhile for John to respond, three whole minutes.  
  
**John5NF** : I don’t want to wait that long, I don’t know if I can.  
  
Sherlock swallows thickly, feels dizzy, as though he may topple right over.

There’s no time, no time to hone his real persona, to make John Watson actually _like_ Sherlock Holmes. There’s just no time.

It’s then that a wave of guilt so acute that steals his breath. He’s misled this man, this man that he… that he what?

_That I’m romantically interested in, damn it all to hell, that I very well may feel things for._  
_  
_ Sherlock’s head falls to his hands, his elbows on his knees as it eats him up, from the inside out. How could he have possibly thought to do this? How could he have possibly thought that this was a good idea, that someone as good and true as John Watson would accept him after all of this? How could anyone trust someone after they’d been put through this. He’s cocked it all up, monumentally, from the outset. His need to be clever had overtaken rational thought and led him down this path.

It’s a uniquely new sensation, this. He’s never experienced this sort of gut-twisting, truly heart-wrenching guilt. That means something, Sherlock thinks; of course it does. John means something to him; John is dear to him, and he truly hates himself–loathes himself if he’s honest about it–for misleading him even in the slightest.

Sherlock Holmes is a terrible man, to do this to someone he cares about, and for his own personal gain. He’s a selfish, deceitful, egomaniacal waste of a man, certainly not of the moral calibre that someone like John Watson deserves.

But he can’t help it; he _wants_. Desperately.

Could he have done it any differently?

Would he have allowed himself to do it any differently, especially considering how self-deprecating he’d been about having feelings towards John at all?

Sherlock doesn’t know, he doesn’t know anything. He’s so totally at sea that he can’t think of a thing to write in return, other than,

**guest_47995** : Alright. One week from today. Noon, at the fountain. But you must promise me one thing.  
**John5NF** : what’s that?  
**guest_47995** : I’ve no right to ask this of you, but I hope that upon meeting me you’ll spare a moment to let me explain myself.  
**John5NF** : explain yourself? Is this a looks thing? Do you not like the wya you look?  
**guest_47995** : Please, simply assure me that you will give me the benefit of the doubt and let me explain myself.  
**John5NF** : Is that it?  
**guest_47995** : Is that what?  
**John5NF** : Your only condition.  
**guest_47995** : Yes.  
**John5NF** : Then, I’ll see you in a week  
**guest_47995** : Right.  
  
**John5NF may not be on Hangouts right now. Your messages will be seen later.**


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We are,” Sherlock states in the same moment John says, “Acquaintances at most.” It’s best, John thinks, to keep Sherlock at arm’s length; he hadn’t considered before that it might be the most pragmatic way to approach this situation.

The first thing John realizes as he shuts his laptop is that his hands are sweating — a lot. His brain tries to make some sort of parallel between all that he’s seen and done in life and this moment, and how he can’t seem to handle this comparatively insignificant thing. 

 

But it is significant. It’s  _ huge _ . 

 

_ From unsure about Guest to moving the meeting date up by two weeks, what the hell, Watson? _

 

An audible groan escapes him, and he leans back in his chair, the legs tipping backwards as he drags his palms down over his face. 

 

“What the hell?” he says aloud, then shoves his laptop back on his desk until it touches the wall. If he can just think about this, consider all his options...

 

The feeling of apprehension at meeting Guest hit him so acutely, he wonders where it even came from. Part of it- is knowing Sherlock Holmes, now. Knowing what it’s like to be alongside him, work with him, taste the danger lingering just on the horizon. It’s all so appealing, in so many ways. It doesn’t hurt that he’s fit as all hell, too, and seems to value loyalty and intelligence just as much as John does.

 

Guest might value those things, too, but how is he to know? What if, after all of this, they meet, and John is the one that has to end things between them?  _ Getting ahead of yourself, there _ , he chastises himself. This situation is all so amorphous, so incredibly tenuous; it’s 2011, why couldn’t he have done the normal thing and chatted someone up at a pub? Not for the first time, John is overcome with a sense that meeting someone from the internet is particularly juvenile.

 

He feels even more foolish for thinking that perhaps there is something romantic between he and Guest. But there must be...there really seems to be something more, lingering beneath the surface. Or perhaps years away from normal human interaction have caused him to read the situation completely incorrectly. He knows how to date, even after all of this while. John knows the ins and outs of a proper date, knows when to compliment, when to ask someone to come inside and when to wait on them to ask.

 

There’s a brief, manic moment in which he considers taking to the internet in order to research these sorts of meetings, but he decides against it. He’s already verging on feeling entirely pathetic, best not to add insult to injury. 

 

And for some reason, his rational brain keeps straying towards wondering what Sherlock Holmes would think of all of this. John knows he shouldn’t care, but finds that, for some inexplicable reason, he does. Sherlock has managed to wriggle his way into John’s mind, tendrils reaching, infiltrating; John feels almost overcome with the idea of him. 

 

Thoughts come uninhibited by reason or fact, and John wonders if he’s reconsidering everything he knows about Guest because he’s met Sherlock Holmes.  _ Been ensnared by, more bloody like it _ . Would he even have these reservations were it not for Sherlock Holmes, sweeping with the force of a gale wind into his life? There’s no way of telling, he knows, but he can’t help but dwell on the possibility that if Sherlock Holmes hadn’t come along, John would be much more excited to meet Guest.    
  
Much more excited for the possibility of something more with Guest.

 

_ And two men at once _ , John thinks to himself, chides. Sure, he’s dated more than one person at once, but he’s never had to juggle, never had to obfuscate. Can he be blamed, he wonders? And is it even necessary to inform Guest that he might be interested in someone else?

 

John recalls Sherlock dashing through the back alleys of London, and a thrill slithers down his spine, nestling in his belly. _ This is a bit of a turn up. No serious interest in a woman _ _ — _ _ or a man _ _ — _ _ for years and now _ …

 

Two men, one very real, very posh, brilliant and poncy and the other…

 

The other. Well, he won’t know, know for sure unless he meets Guest. He’d been so excited to do just that only a week ago, and now the fantastic sheen had worn off of the fantasy. There’s no doubt in his mind that he still wants to, but it’s a completely different situation, now. Someone flesh and blood had thrown everything into a mess.

 

John is careful not to think too long on the fact that this whole to do is a bit sitcom-y. He’s also sure to steer clear of thoughts of  _ choosing _ someone. He’d have to be a true egomaniac– _ like Sherlock damned Holmes, actually _ –to believe he had the right to weigh these men on a pro-con list and then simply pick one. 

 

Groaning, he gets up from his chair and moves to the bed, laying out prostrate against the sheets like he’s sure he once did as a sulking teenager.  _ I am _ , John decides, resolutely and finally,  _ excited to meet Guest _ .

 

_ If only to have all of this over with, this waiting and wondering _ . 

 

\---

 

The next day dawns sunny but blustery, and John’s throat feels a bit raw and his nose a bit blocked up. 

 

_ Of course, of course I’d be coming down with a cold. _

 

He takes care in choosing a heavy jumper as he dresses for work. He acknowledges that the act of wrapping himself in wool might be a bit too on the nose as far as anxiety reduction goes, but he doesn’t much care. His movements are made more laborious by the gentle simmer of nerves in his stomach; his mind simply will not stop replaying the previous evening. 

 

He shakes it off physically as he brushes his teeth, but it remains with him as he locks up the flat and as he walks to work. 

 

John goes through the motions: swipes his badge when necessary, nods to familiar faces in the hallway before shoving his way through the swinging double doors. Still, the fog hovers over him, unwavering.

 

Molly is nowhere to be found, but there’s a hideous mohair sweater over the back of her chair, so he shouts, “Morning!” and goes about preparing his space for the day in silence. He’s so caught up in the routine of laying out his tools that his mind drifts once again to imagining Guest’s appearance.

 

_ If I were a total arse hole and making a pro-con list, I’d certainly have _ handsome  _ underneath Sherlock Holmes, and a large damned question mark under Guest’s name. God, I’m such a wanker, it doesn’t matter what he looks like, it really doesn’t! As long as he’s as sharp, as intelligent, as breathtaking as Sherlock Holmes. _

 

_ Sherlock Holmes. _

 

_ Sherlock…. Holmes. Sherlock. Such a strange name, I wonder the history behind that. Was it his mother or his father that named him? Is it a family name? Was he made fun of as a child? Was he a complete berk then, too?  _ __   
__   
It occurs to him in a distant way that perhaps using Sherlock Holmes as a metric with which to judge others might not be the best method of assessing his predicament.

But John finds that it’s rather hard  _ not _ to. 

 

It takes him several tries to get his mind somewhat back on track. It’s vexing, and more than a bit angering that he can’t seem to focus on actual work because of his love life. Or lack thereof, rather.  _ Get over yourself _ , he thinks,  and pushes his safety goggles down over his eyes with more force than is needed, snatching up a scalpel with less caution than he should. 

 

He’s halfway through his second y-incision of the day when Molly pulls off her nitrile gloves with unusually loud snaps, flipping them into the bin near the gurney where he’s working. John hadn’t even registered her presence and barely has time to glance up before she’s standing across the table from him, casting a shadow over the cadaver. She stares unwaveringly at him, so John just blinks twice, gives her a questioning glance and then returns to the body. 

 

He can feel her eyes on him, but keeps his head down, feeling suspiciously like he’s being dissected.

 

“Alright, what’s going on with you today?” Molly asks eventually with a tiny huff, breaking the stalemate of silence.  “You’re… preoccupied.”

 

John swallows, carefully lowering the bonesaw that’s in his hands to the table, and blows a breath through his nose. This is starting to affect his work, which is entirely new kind of embarrassment. “I know I’m behind — ”

 

“Oh no!” Molly chirps. Her cheeks seem to color at the drop of a hat, John notices, as the pink flushes over her face. “You’re, no, not work, uhm. You just seem… not… all here?” Molly presses her lips together, rocking back on her feet as she falls silent. Her eyes remain large and questioning, and she doesn’t seem likely to budge. 

 

He feels pinned down.

 

John’s tongue finds his bottom lip and swipes, Molly’s inadvertent prying actually plucking at the center of his chest. What if he could tell her, just talk to her about this? She almost certainly won’t be able to give him any useful advice. She’s too kind, too sweet, too traditional. John believes the chances that she’s felt out the romantic situation with two men at once is very slim. Because she, unlike him, is normal and good and likely knows how to  _ do _ relationships.

 

Probably.

 

Or not. John kicks himself for assuming.

 

How the hell would he know? He hasn’t really made an effort to make her acquaintance beyond small talk.

 

_ Six days _ , comes the spectre of a reminder, prodding at his present thoughts.

 

Hands fidget atop the aluminum table and he places the scalpel into the tiny metal receptacle at his side. “Let’s uhhhhhhhhh, would you want to have lunch? Grab a bite?” John ventures, already taking off his disposable gear and tossing it haphazardly into a biohazard bin. 

 

“Oh! I brought a — a sandwich, but yeah, alright!” Molly perks up, stopping just short of clapping her hands together. “Do you want — ”

 

John is already stripping his lab coat and nodding his head, manically. “Now, let’s go now.”

 

Molly struggles to catch up, half-skipping into her office to snag her sweater and follow John out of the basement. 

 

\---   
  
They end up at a cafe just around the corner. John pays, feeling guilty for having dragged her all the way out here, possibly just to air his romantic woes. It occurs to him that this may be very inappropriate, getting dating advice from a woman who is straight and whom he barely knows, but who is also technically his boss. 

 

But,  _ desperate _ times.    
  
They each get a soup and a sandwich and find a booth by the window; it’s a nice day, though chilly, and he doesn’t want to feel like he’s squirreling them away just to have a conversation. 

 

“So,” Molly begins, blowing on a spoonful of soup.

 

John finds suddenly that he feels itchy all over, a bit hot, questioning for the millionth time whether this is a good idea. He’s not sure how to make friends anymore, not sure how to even begin to bridge this sort of subject. He hedges for a moment, deciding entirely to forget about Sherlock, about Guest, and just make this a normal lunch with a coworker.

But his stomach flips again; Molly has been reaching out to him, attempting to be friendly, and if she’s willing to listen, he supposes he get circumvent the urge in himself to be stiff-upper-lip about his situation. “I, uhm, you know… it’s been awhile since I’ve been in London, properly.”

 

For what it’s worth, Molly seems to be a patient listener, because she just nods and goes about eating her lunch. She doesn’t rush him and doesn’t pry, which is good, because it takes John a moment to parse what words he wants to use, how much he wants to divulge. “I just mean, it’s… I don’t have many people to. Chat to.”

 

“Right,” she smiles, her eyes somehow softening even further, “but I’m here now, so.”

 

“No, I’m not, no. I didn’t mean for it to sound like…” John shakes his head, sighs. “I’d like another perspective, I suppose.”

 

Molly smiles warmly at him, and leans slightly forward, attentive. “I’m all ears.”

 

“Right, yeah, right,” he says, taking a harsh bite out of his turkey club. “S’been awhile since I’ve, uhm, dated? And, jesus, I don’t know why this is so hard.” He laughs, self-deprecating. 

 

“I get it,” she mentions, nodding as though she’s a sage. “You don’t know me that well, and talk like this is always… difficult. Because, of, well…”

 

“The difficulty of it,” John murmurs pathetically.

 

She laughs. “For what it’s worth, I’ve been on a lot of dates. Not like that, just, I’ve been on a lot of dates because, you know, the one previous didn't work out and then that one didn't work out. What I mean to say is…” Molly flushes. “I don’t know what I mean to say, why don’t… you say… things. Tell me about what’s uhm, going on.”

 

John considers her a moment. She’s got such an odd affect, but she seems to be genuinely interested. Molly isn’t at all what he would have expected, looking at her. She’s a bit of a strange woman, to be sure, but between her bumbling, her blushing and her offer of help, John decides he actually quite enjoys Molly Hooper’s company. That perhaps, if he doesn’t cock it all up, they could be friends. 

 

John places his sandwich back on his plate with an undue amount of care. His eyes remain focused on the table. “I uh, yeah. I’m meeting with someone from… the person from online. In a week.”

 

“In a week,” she confirms slowly, as though slotting things together in her head.

 

A beat, and he clears his throat, voice gaining volume and a bit of confidence. “Yeah, and uh, I moved the date up? By several weeks, because…”

 

“Because?” she inquires, leaning across the table as though they’re sharing some secret. 

 

John waffles, should he tell her the truth? Tell her everything? That’d be a bit too much of laying it all on the line, he thinks. But if he doesn’t, how can he truly get any advice from her.

 

John is still struggling with how much to divulge when Molly gasps, “Sherlock?”

 

“How did you — ” John begins, heart in his throat, only to be cut immediately off by a tall figure sliding into the booth beside him, his hip knocking into John’s before he settles into his own space.    
  


He smiles at John, even as he reaches across and steals one of John’s crisps.

 

“Oi!” John says, angling his body to make his food less accessible. His heart takes up a rapid-staccato beat as John curses the arrival of Sherlock Holmes. It’s as though the man has a penchant for showing up exactly when he isn’t presently wanted. 

 

Or, he can read minds. John doesn’t rule that out. 

 

”Hello, Sherlock,” Molly says with a bright smile, eyes darting from John’s face to Sherlock’s and back. “On your way to Barts?”

 

He brushes crumbs from the corner of his lips. “Back from, actually. Had an appointment with an endocrinologist who was… not unhelpful.” He catches John’s eye, managing to distract him enough that he pilfers another crisp. 

 

“John was just talking about his — ” Molly begins, voice vibrating with excitement. 

 

“Molly!” John interrupts and slams his hand down at the top of the crisp bag, effectively stopping Sherlock from stealing any more. In return, he’s served a dramatic pout.

 

“It appears there is something John doesn’t want me to know,” Sherlock says, brightly and succinctly.    
  
“I’m sorry John,” Molly says, though her eyes are sparkling mischievously. “I thought you were friends,” she claims with a tiny smile, cheeks round and pink. 

 

“We are,” Sherlock states in the same moment John says, “Acquaintances at most.” It’s best, John thinks, to keep Sherlock at arm’s length; he hadn’t considered before that it might be the most pragmatic way to approach this situation.

 

But Sherlock Holmes makes that all but impossible, crashing his way through John’s defenses before John has any damned idea what’s going on. It’s irrational that John blames him for this, as though John isn’t just as culpable for feeling the way that he does. 

 

Sherlock raises a hand to his chest, pulls a face that looks vaguely put-out, though mocking. “And here I thought we’d made progress. And I don’t have friends, so to call you a friend, John Watson — ”

 

“Alright, fine, we’re… becoming friends,” John grumbles and Sherlock grins, reaches across and tugs the bag of crisps out from under John’s hand. “Yeah, sure, go ahead and finish those,” John says bitingly and stares across the table, hard, at Molly. 

 

“You two were discussing your… romantic life, no?” Sherlock asks, popping a crisp into his mouth and chewing daintily. 

 

John rolls his eyes, but doesn’t ask how Sherlock knows this; Sherlock knows everything, perhaps it’s best that he just accepts this as fact. 

 

Though, simultaneously, John simply cannot allow Sherlock to try and dissect his situation without John doing everything he can to intervene. It’s already awkward enough that he’s speaking to Molly about these incredibly intimate issues he’s having. He doesn’t need Sherlock’s derisive, rude comments. “No, nope. Not doing this. Not having you… deduce everything about him.”

 

“Him,” Sherlock hums, sounds delighted. The smile that tugs at his lips is smarmy, and John wants to throttle him. 

 

John purses his lips, “Said I’m not doing this.”

  
Instead of taking the hint, Sherlock settles himself more comfortably in the booth. “Ah, but I will… do this,” he twiddles his fingers above the food on the table and launches in with a pleased grin. “He’s smart, your man. Someone of average intelligence would bore you. And he’s fit, because you’re vain, though you like to believe you’re not. It’s fine, nearly everyone is, why shouldn’t you want someone handsome? He’s mysterious, given that you’re an adrenaline addict, again, wouldn’t want a bore.” Sherlock’s eyes narrow, “and he’s a Londoner, because you love this city like an old friend.”

 

“John,” Molly starts, the awe evident in her voice.

 

“Nope, no, no — ”

 

“Oh come on,” Sherlock boasts, “I  _ know _ that I’m right.”

 

That raises John’s hackles; he finds himself wanting to clock this bastard at the same time wanting to taste his lips. It’s enormously infuriating. “And how do you  _ know _ , you dick?”

 

“Because,” Sherlock says, and deftly leans over and steals the remnants of John’s sandwich, taking a large bite. “I’m Sherlock Holmes,” he says, foregoing politeness and speaking with his mouth full.

 

One last smarmy smile and he’s gone with the last of John’s lunch.

 

John just watches him go, exhausted by the exchange. He’s not entirely shocked that Sherlock had taken him apart so quickly; he’s probably wearing everything on his sleeve, and to a man like Sherlock Holmes, was likely writ so in large, block, neon letters. “Christ,” John mutters through teeth he hadn’t realized he’d clenched.

 

“He’s…”

 

“An arsehole?” John growls, perhaps a bit too viciously, judging by the shocked expression that Molly is wearing. “Sorry, I’m… sorry.”

 

Molly’s mouth moves for a moment before she speaks. “Was he, uhm. Right?”

 

“Right.” John states, mind slowly catching up to speak, despise his ire. 

 

“About,” she gestures with her chin. “Your man.”

 

John blinks, shocked—for reasons he can’t place—that Molly has caught him out. Sherlock was right, dead on. And that’s what made him feel so flayed open, that Sherlock seemed to know everything about him. Sherlock was able to get to the very truth of things, and John himself can’t work his way back to the genesis of all of this in order to try and untangle it.    
  
“Of course,” John says with absolutely no affect. “Of course he was.”

 

“Oh,” is all she says, sitting back, a tiny smile touching her mouth.

 

“Because… he’s Sherlock Holmes,” and he’s pissed off, but also breathless, because Sherlock seems to know the very heart of him. What he needs, what he wants. It’s remarkable, and John wonders what that intensity, that attention to detail, that passion, would look like when directed at himself and himself alone. It’s a terribly alluring thought, tantalizing, tugging John’s thoughts in a direction he shouldn’t be angling down while in polite company.

 

John has more than an inkling that there’s something behind that cocky bashness. Something softer waiting to be accessed. John wishes desperately to know what that is. 

  
John blows a breath between his lips and sighs; he’s more torn than ever. “Yeah, he’s Sherlock Holmes and of course he was fucking right.”


End file.
